IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-S) 


1.0 


I.I 


11.25 


|28     |25 
1^    12.2 

i!^  1^   IIIIIM 


u.   ..     I 


1.4 


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1.6 


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/a 


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A 


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Photographic 

Sciences 

Corporation 


23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14580 

(716)  872-4503 


CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

Series. 


CIHM/ICIVIH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


Canadian  Institute  for  Historical  Microreproductions  /  In^tltut  Canadian  de  microreproductions  historlques 


Technical  and  Bibliographic  Notea/Notas  tachniquaa  at  bibliographiquaa 


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reproduction,  or  which  may  aignif  icantly  change 
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D 


n 


D 
D 


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n 


n 


Coloured  covera/ 
Couverture  de  couieur 


I      I    Covera  damaged/ 


Couverture  endommagAe 


Covera  reatored  and/or  laminated/ 
Couverture  reatauria  et/ou  pellicuiAe 


I      I    Cover  title  miaaing/ 


La  titra  de  couverture  manque 

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Encre  de  couieur  (I.e.  autre  que  bleue  ou  noire) 


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aont  indiouAa  ci-deaaoua. 


The 
to  tl 


|~~|   Coloured  pagaa/ 


D 


Pagaa  de  couieur 

Pagea  damaged/ 
Pagaa  andommagiaa 

Pagaa  reatored  and/oi 

Pagea  reataurAea  et/ou  peiliculies 

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includes  supplementary  materif 
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Only  edition  available/ 
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I — I  Pagea  damaged/ 

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I      I  Pages  detached/ 

Pyl  Showthrough/ 

I      I  Quality  of  print  variea/ 

I      I  includea  auppiamentary  material/ 

I — I  Only  edition  available/ 


The 
post 
of  tl 
film 


Orig 

begi 

the 

slon 

othe 

first 

slon 

or  ill 


The 
shall 
TINl 
whic 

Map 
diffe 
entir 
begii 
right 
requi 
meth 


Pagea  wholly  or  partially  obacured  by  errata 
aiipa,  tiaauaa,  etc.,  have  been  ref limed  to 
enaure  the  beat  poaaible  image/ 
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obacurciaa  par  un  feuillet  d'errata,  une  pelure, 
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obtenir  la  meilleure  image  poaaible. 


This  item  is  filmed  at  the  reduction  ratio  checked  below/ 

Ce  document  est  film6  au  taux  de  reduction  indiquA  ci-dessous. 


10X 

14X 

18X 

22X 

26X 

30X 

>/ 

12X                            16X                            20X                            24X                            28X                            32X 

1 

The  copy  filmed  here  has  been  reproduced  thanks 
to  the  generosity  of: 

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L'exemplaire  fiimd  fut  reproduit  grdce  d  la 
g6n6rosit6  de: 

Bibiiothdque  nationale  du  Canada 


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de  la  netteti  de  l'exemplaire  film6,  et  en 
conformity  avec  les  conditions  du  contrat  de 
filmage. 


Original  copies  in  printed  paper  covers  are  filmed 
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sion, or  the  back  cover  when  appropriate.  All 
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sion, and  ending  on  the  last  page  with  a  printed 
or  illustrated  impression. 


The  last  recorded  frame  on  each  microfiche 
shall  contain  the  symbol  —^'  (meaning  "CON- 
TINUED"), or  the  symbol  V  (meaning  "END"), 
whichever  applies. 


Les  exemplaires  originaux  dont  la  couverture  en 
papier  est  imprim6e  sont  film6s  en  commenpant 
par  le  premier  plat  et  en  terminant  soit  par  la 
dernidre  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration,  soit  par  le  second 
plat,  selon  le  cas.  Tous  les  autres  exemplaires 
originaux  sont  film^s  en  commenpant  par  la 
premidre  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration  et  en  terminant  par 
la  dernidre  page  qui  comporte  une  telle 
empreinte. 

Un  des  symboles  suivants  apparaftra  sur  la 
dernidre  image  de  cheque  microfiche,  selon  le 
cas:  le  symbols  -^  signifie  "A  SUIVRE  ",  le 
symbole  V  signifie  "FIN". 


Maps,  plates,  charts,  etc.,  may  be  filmed  at 
different  reduction  ratios.  Those  too  large  to  be 
entirely  included  in  one  exposure  are  filmed 
beginning  in  the  upper  left  hand  corner,  left  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  as  many  frames  as 
required.  The  following  diagrams  illustrate  the 
method: 


Les  cartes,  planches,  tableaux,  etc.,  peuvent  dtre 
film6s  d  des  taux  de  reduction  diff6rents. 
Lorsque  le  document  est  trop  grand  pour  dtre 
reproduit  en  un  seul  cliche,  il  est  film6  A  partir 
de  Tangle  supdrieur  gauche,  de  gauche  d  droite, 
et  de  haut  en  bas,  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'images  ndcessaire.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
illustrent  la  mdthode. 


1 

2 

3 

32X 


1 

2 

3 

4 

S 

6 

..«^ 


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.hJ 


;i^' 


THE  CHIEF  FACTOR 


7 


B  Uale  of  tbe  l)u^0on'^  JSai?  Company? 


BEING  THE  HISTORY  OF  MASTER  ANDREW  VENLAW,  CHIEF 
FACTOR^  MISTRESS  JEAN  FORDIE,  AND  OTHERS 


BY 

GILBERT  PARKER 

AUTHOR  OF 

"PIERRE   AND    HIS    PEOPLE,"    I*  MRS.    FALCHION,"   ** ROUND    THE 

COMPASS  IN  AUSTRALIA,"  STCt 


NEW   YORK 
THE   HOME   PUBUSHING  COMPANY 
3  East  Fourteenth  Street 
'..'    I8g3 


■'•4m 


..ii 


umn 


Copyright,  1893,  by 
GILBERT    PARKER. 


Copyright,  1893,  bv 
A.  C.  GUNTER 


AU  rights  reserved 


Ch 


Press  of  J.  J.  Little  &  Co. 
Astor  Place,  New  York 


A  ] 


NJ 


CONTENTS. 


^/ 


11 


-\  J 


Chapter         I. — ^A  Court  of  Appeal, 
II. — At  Beltane  Fair, 
III. — "  For  Lochaber  no  More,"     - 
IV.—*'  The  Ice  Fields  and  the  Main," 
v.— The  Slant  of  the  Years,  - 
VI.  — Councils  of  War,    -        -        - 
VII. — A  Courier  of  Safety, 
VIII. — A  Siege  and  Parley, 
IX.— That  Infinite  Edge, 
X. — ^The  Blow  and  the  Rebound,   - 
XI. — The  Tent  Curtain  Outward  Swings,   148 
XIL— "Tho'  'twere  Ten  Thousand  Mile, "  152 
XIII.— "Peebles  at  the  Pla),"  -        -        -  163 
XiV.— *'  The  Bend  o'  the  Crag,"        -        -  171 
XV. — The  Return,  -        -        -        -  193 


PAGB 

I 

35 

45 

66 

71 

89 

106 

117 

130 

141 

A  Ricochet, 


-   2(1 


I 


THE  CHIEF  FACTOR. 


CHAPTER   I. 

A  COURT   OF   APPEAL. 

She  was  an  uncommon  girl,  and  one  man,  at  least 
thought  her  beautiful.  He  dwelt  on  the  varying  colour  of 
her  warm  golden  face,  and  the  way  her  brown  hair  lifted 
with  every  breath.  He  knew  the  difference  between  her 
walk  and  that  of  the  other  lasses  of  Braithen — how  free 
and  swaying  was  her  step,  how  lissom  her  body.  He  had 
watched  her  now  and  then  as  she  sat  at  the  loom  in  old 
Cowrie  Castle,  and  the  picture  of  her  deft  fingers,  the  ab- 
sorbed intelligence  of  her  face,  the  slow,  rhythmical  mo- 
tions of  her  arms,  and  the  sight  and  sound  of  the  flying 
shuttle,  was  indalible  and  delightful.  Since  he  was  a  lad 
with  the  sheep  upon  the  hills  she  had  seemed  to  him  the 
most  wonderful  thing  in  the  world.  When  he  grew  to  be 
six  feet,  or  nearly,  and  his  shoulders  became  wide  and 
body  powerful,  he  still  thought  so — and  he  had  learned  a 
deal  since  the  shepherding  days.  His  admiration  for  her, 
if  not  generally  known,  was  at  least  suspected,  and  by  none 
more  strongly  than  his  old  schoolmaster,  who  had  for  many 
years  called  him,  Andrew  Venlaw,  his  most  promising  pu- 
pil ;  as,  indeed,  the  one  lad  of  whom  he  had  unusual  occa- 
sion to  be  proud.     The  venerable  Dominie,  little  inclined 


{  I 


H 

n 


I 


'■Mi 


THE  CHIEF  FACTOR, 


to  women  as  he  was,  acknowledged  in  his  own  mind  that 
there  were  some  points  of  value  in  Jean  P'ordie ;  but  it 
would  not  do  to  let  Andrew  know  this.  He  had  as  great 
ambitions  for  Andrew  as  Andrew  had  for  himself.  The 
lad  had  not  fought  his  way  through  pages  of  barbarous 
Latin  and  elusive  Greek,  bargained  with  sines  and  co-sines, 
imbibed  history  as  a  desert  does  water,  and  spent  midnight 
hours  with  archaeology,  for  nothing.  He  was  only  a  builder 
of  houses  now,  under  a  master,  but  he  hoped  to  be  a  great 
architect  one  day.  To  that  end  he  had  Edinburgh  in  view  ; 
in  Edinburgh,  hard  work,  then  success  :  then,  Jean  Fordie, 
if  she  would  come.  And,  surely,  if  he  proved  himself 
very  much  a  man,  that  might  count  for  something  with 
her.  He  thought  no  one  was  good  enough  for  her,  but  he 
also  thought  that  none  would  so  worship  and  care  for  her 
as  he — that  is  not  an  uncommon  thing  in  the  love  of  a 
staunch  and  wholesome  man.  And  such  men  also  think 
that  a  woman  is  to  them  an  inspiration  and  an  amazing 
help.  The  Dominie  did  not.  To  him  woman  was  a  dan- 
ger, a  disturber  of  the  peace,  the  flaw  in  a  young  man's 
brain,  and  more  particularly  in  that  of  Andrew  Venlaw. 
Occasionally  he  counted  it  necessary  to  lecture  Andrew  on 
this.  It  was  noticeable  that  while  his  English  was  excel- 
lent on  most  occasions,  and  generally  so  when  he  began 
his  admonitions,  it  became  provincial  as  his  earnestness  in- 
creased. Sometimes  he  bethought  himself  and  reverted  to 
Shakespeare's  verbal  purity,  but  he  always  lapsed  again. 
Once,  when  he  had  partially  lapsed,  thus  : 

**  I'll  no  say  ye've  yer  ee  on  ony,  Andrew,  but  ye  hae 
an  unco  love  for  the  road  that  a  certain  lassie  traivels. 
And  I'll  agree  there's  a  bonny  glow  in  her  cheek  and  a 
licht  in  her  ee,  but  they're  for  seein',  no  for  haein' — no 


"^, 


A    COU.  T  OF  APPEAL. 


for  haein*.  Ye  ken  you  maun  gang  a  lang  gate  in  the 
warld,  Andrew  Venlaw,  and  ye're  no  sure  o'  yer  footin* 
for  mony  a  day  yet.  So  where  wad  ye  be  wi'  a  woman 
and  bairns  draggin'  ye  doun  ?  " 

How  deep  these  cautions  went  into  Andrew's  heart  may 
be  judged  from  the  fact  that,  when  it  was  possible,  he 
went  straightway  where  he  could  get  a  glinij^e  of  Jean. 
For  he  knew  her  habits  and  when  she  was  likely  to  be 
seen  on  the  road  between  Braithen  and  the  Castle. 

Sometimes  he  walked  with  her,  and  talked  in  his  blunt 
but  not  uneloquent  fashion,  discussing  now  the  salmon, 
now  the  French  prisoners  of  war  quartered  in  the  town, 
or,  more  frequently,  the  ballads  and  tales  of  the  border- 
side,  in  which  he  was  well  learned.  On  this  last  theme  he 
had  a  keen,  almost  cultured,  and  delighted  listener ;  for  if 
there  was  one  thing  Jean  knew,  it  was  the  traditions  of 
the  Border — from  the  date  of  the  first  siege  of  Cowrie  Cas- 
tle and  the  time  when  Darnley  and  Mary  quarrelled  in  the 
shade  of  its  yeWs,  to  the  days  when  Cromwell  sent  his 
grim  Puritans  at  it,  and  cut  away  a  shoulder  or  so  of  its 
masonry,  or  the  gay  followers  of  the  Pretender  foraged  be- 
side it  as  they  marched  southward.  Jean's  knowledge  had 
not  come  by  reading  only,  but  through  the  oldest  and 
most  fascinating  channel  of — but  that  will  come  later. 

Andrew  had  never  talked  of  love  to  her,  however  much 
in  his  large  honest  way  he  had  looked  it.  He  knew,  in- 
deed, that  she  did  not  love  him,  for  he  never  saw  her  eye 
flash  warmly  in  his  presence  until  he  touched  upon  some- 
thing that  interested  her ;  and  then  the  colour  would  go 
romping  back  and  forth  in  her  cheek,  and  she  caught  his 
thoughts  almost  before  he  had  spoken  them.  She  would 
turn  a  glowing  eye  to  his,  but  it  was  for  the  story,  not  for 


^    ' 


Mr 


il 


TlfE  ClftEF  FACTOR. 


him.  He  did  not  dcsi)air,  for  he  had  wonderful  |)ersist- 
en<  e  ;  lie  knew  that  her  father,  John  Fordie,  liked  him,  if 
not  encouraged  liim  ;  he  and  she  were  good  friends,  and, 
in  a  vague  way,  he  l)eheved  that  it  pleased  a  woman  to 
he  loved,  so  long  as  the  love  was  not  intrusive;  and  there 
might  come  a  time  !  Her  brother  liru(  e  and  he,  however, 
were  not  close  comrades  ;  and  that  wiis  unfortunate.  Their 
habits  were  difTerent,  and,  what  was  more  than  all  else, 
liruce  w;is  the  close  friend  of  JJrian  Kingley,  the  young 
Irishman  who  had  come  to  live  with  iiis  mother's  brother, 
the  Laird  of  Threep.  Tlu^e  kinsmen  Injtween  them — for 
one  was  a  poor  manager  and  the  other  a  wild,  extravagant 
lad -r- contrived  to  ruin  Threep  before  the  elder  man 
died ;  so  that  when  Hrian  came  back  from  the  funeral  he 
found  the  bailiffs  in  possession,  and  he  was  almost  penni- 
less upon  the  world.  But  while  the  pennies  lasted  and 
credit  could  be  had  Brian  was  not  dismayed.  And  be- 
cause the  gentry  became  shy  of  him  and  he  had  no  taste 
for  tradespeople,  he  flung  himself  into  the  company  of  the 
l)oor  farmer  and  the  artisan,  among  whom  he  had  many 
admirers.  The  most  notable  of  these  was  Bruce  Fordie, 
much  to  the  disgust  of  his  father,  who  had  very  stern  ideas 
of  life,  emphasized,  perhaps,  by  the  fact  that  he  was  chief 
gamekeeper  on  the  Cowrie  estate,  and  had  charge  of  the 
Castle,  living  there  alone  with  Bruce  and  Jean,  and  gath- 
ering, unlike  them,  severity  from  its  strong,  unpicturesque 
solidity.  Bruce  was  a  carpenter,  but  he  had  only  imper- 
fectly followed  his  trade,  preferring  idle  hours  with  the 
French  prisoners,  and  even  in  defying  the  game  laws, 
which  were  as  the  very  Scriptures  to  his  father.  The 
blame  of  this  was  placed  on  Brian's  shoulders  by  John  For- 
die, though,  truth  to  say,  Brian  had,  in  his  oflf-hand  fash- 

^      -  "  '■'■'--■ 


A    COl'KT  or  AI'rF.M.. 


i 


ion,  urgod  Bruce  to  steady  himself  by  day  whatever  he  did 
by  night. 

"  For  look  you  here,  nie  boy,"  said  Brian,  dropping 
into  his  country's  brogue,  as  he  always  did  when  with  men 
of  the  humble  sort,  "you  como  of  a  race  that's  made  for 
work  and  not  for  blether  and  foolin'  ;  and  when  you've 
not  done  a  long  turn  'twixt  dawn  and  dusk,  you're  too  full 
o'  blood  and  old  Nick  ;  and  bang  you'll  go  with  your  head 
at  a  bailie,  or  bang  '11  go  your  gun  at  a  hare  or  a  pheasant, 
when  the  time  isn't  right;  and  your  own  father  '11  trundle 
you  off  to  gaol,  or  give  you  a  wipe  from  behind  a  hedge." 

"  Look  at  yourself!  "  said  Bruce  to  this. 

<*  Don't  I  know  that?  But  we  Irish  are  different  alto- 
gether,  by  race  and  by  breeding,  me  boy.  Whether  we 
work  or  play  we're  in  mischief,  and  it  makes  but  little 
matter;  we're  gab  and  shillelahs  mostly  anyhow;  with 
fickleness  in  our  eyes  for  man  and  maid,  and  a  thirsty 
throat  all  the  way.  We're  just  the  actors  and  the  vaga- 
bonds of  the  world  :  the  luxury  of  time.  We  do  what  we 
do,  and  leave  undone  what  we  leave  undone,  as  naturally 
as  stealin*  a  deer  or  killin'  a  tyrant.  But  you  Scots,  when 
you  play  gentlemen  of  leisure,  run  amock  like  any  Malay ; 
and  that's  the  truth  o'  Heaven  for  you,  to  take  or  to  lave 
....  and  Bruce,  me  gossoon,  there's  one  more  sup,  and 
to  bed  you  go,  and  jump  to  your  work  in  the  mornin'  !  " 

But  it  was  of  little  use.  Bruce  was  bound  to  fulfil  the 
apprehensive  predictions  of  the  Irishman.  On  the  eve  of 
Beltane  Fair,  in  1810,  he  was  wanted  by  the  authorities  for 
poaching,  and  for  breaking  the  head  of  a  gamekeeper,  who 
had  somewhat  maliciously  laid  a  trap  for  him  and  as.saulted 
him  unnecessarily.  The  man  was  very  badly  hurt,  and  if 
he  died  it  would  go  fatally  hard  with  Bruce.    John  Fordie, 


THE   CHIEF  FACTOR. 


A 


1  i  - 


upright  man  as  he  was,  openly  declared  that  the  boy  was 
now  no  son  of  his ;  and  he  would,  himself,  have  handed 
him  over  to  the  law,  if  he  could  Lave  laid  hands  on  him. 
Strange  to  say,  the  sympathy  of  the  people,  was  more  with 
the  son  than  the  father,  for  the  lad  had  a  way  with  him  at 
a  fair  or  a  wedding,  and  as  pleasant  a  voice  for  Flowers  o^ 
the  forest  or  The  Bush  aboon  Traquair  as  any  south  of 
Edinb'ro  town.  Besides,  there  was  not  in  those  days  as 
great  strictness  and  religious  austerity  in  the  Valley  of  the 
Shiel  as  a  hundred  years  before. 

Jean  herself,  sorrowful  and  fearful  as  she  was  at  the  news, 
was  not  so  bowed  down  in  appearance  as  might  have  been 
expected ;  for,  while  just  eighteen  years  old,  she  had  a  wise 
hea*  and  she  knew  well  that  people  like  you  best  and 
respect  you  most  when  you  are  brave,  and  not  limp  of 
manner  nor  timid  of  face.  Besides,  it  was  her  nature  to 
endure  and  be  courageous  \  and  hard  enough  she  fought 
her  father  upon  his  attitude  towards  her  brother,  though 
respectful  in  manner  and  tone  always.  She  had  no  fear 
when  affection  and  justice  spoke.  She  urged  that  he  might 
talk  of  duty  and  law  as  he  would,  but  he  had. a  duty  to  his 
son — the  duty  of  protection,  which  should  not  be  denied, 
even  if  the  lad  did  kill  a  beggarly  hare  and  wound  a  fight- 
ing gamekeeper.  The  law,  she  said,  was  not  justice,  and 
little  pause  she'd  make  between  the  two  in  a  case  like  this ; 
for  law  was  made  by  selfish  man,  and  justice  by  the  will  of 
God.  That  is,  as  she  tried  further  to  explain,  the  lad 
would  be  punished,  if  caught,  infinitely  beyond  his  des- 
erts. 

"  The  will  o*  God  !  "  retorted  her  father  when  she  spoke 
thus,  on  the  eve  of  Beltane  Fair ;  "  the  will  o'  God  teaches 
that  ye  shall  keep  the  law  o'  the  land.     And  blude  and 


A   COURT  OF  APPEAL, 


7 


bane  as  he  is  o'  me,  I'd  gie  him  ower  to  the  bailiff  the 
morn,  if  he  cam  within  thae  wa's  ;  for  he  has  brocht  dis- 
grace on  me  and  you,  though  ye*  11  no  see't.  Ye  are  tae 
him  as  if  he  was  a  saint  oot  o'  a  book,  and  no'  a  common 
wastrel  and  law-breaker — and  murderer  too,  forbye." 

The  girl  shrank  away  from  these  last  words  as  though 
they  buffeted  her  in  the  face,  but  she  had  iron  in  her  blood. 
She  gathered  herself  together,  determined,  as  a  woman  will, 
to  shield  the  wrong-doer  when  the  tide  runs  counter. 

"  You  dinna  understand,"  she  said.  '*  Can  you  no'  see, 
faither,  that  it's  flesh  and  blude  tae  staun  by  yer  ain  flesh 
and  blude  whan  it's  wicked  and  hunted,  mair  than  whan 
it's  gude  and  in  safety  ?  If  Bruce  is  catchet  noo,  he|i||^ 
ruined  for  life.  If  he  escapes  there'll  be  little  against  mm 
— unless  the  man  dees — for  there's  nae  shame  in  escaping 
the  law  in  the  warld's  een  ;  the  shame  is  in  the  ither.  No* 
that  I'd  defend  him  in  the  wrong  he's  dune,  and  he'll  suffer 
for't  mair  ways  than  ane  frae  noo  till  the  day  he  dees ;  but 
I  canna  bear  to  see  ane  o'  my  name  and  his  ane  faither  turn 
on  him,  and  be  willin'  to  hand  him  ower  to  shame  and  the 
gallows,  maybe."  She  paused,  and  then  she  continued,  sol- 
emnly :  *•  And  if  I  hae  tae  choose  betwixt  the  sinner  and 
him  that'd  punish  the  sinner,  I  ken  what  I'll  dae,  though 
it  break  my  heart  tae  dae't." 

The  girl  had  been  sitting  at  the  loom,  in  the  flickering 
light  of  the  fire  that  burned  in  the  huge  chimney.  For 
though  it  was  May  the  air  was  still  slightly  chilly,  especially 
in  the  damp  old  Castle  whose  walls  were  eight  feet  in  thick- 
ness; and,  besides,  the  kettle  had  been  hung  for  John 
Fordie's  supper.  The  room  had  but  one  window,  which, 
of  very  late  years,  hud  been  hewn  out  of  the  wall.  In  the 
suppressed  excitement  of  her  last  speech,  Jean  walked  over 


'    m 


"Ml 
■»  : 


8 


THE   CHIEF  FACTOR, 


•ij 


to  it  and  looked  down  into  the  shadows  of  the  old  court- 
yard, which  were  deeper  at  the  gate  and  where  the  ruined 
chapel  was  fillen  to  decay  above  the  singing  river.  The 
great  gateway  was  open  and  the  gates  were  gone.  Under 
the  hanging  ivy  and  heavy  verdure,  gathered  on  the  walls 
and  around  the  old  relics  of  the  bartisan  tower,  might  still 
be  seen  the  crest  of  the  ancient-  family  that  had  owned  it 
long  before  the  ancestors  of  the  present  Earl  of  Hartfell 
came  into  possession  ;  and  to  right  and  left  of  this  were 
small  fractures  made  by  the  cannon  balls  of  the  Round- 
heads. Somehow,  at  this  moment,  the  place  seemed  deso- 
late to  Jean ;  very  hard,  stern,  and  homeless.  Indeed,  the 
oldttastle  looked  grim  enough  at  night.  It  stood  upright, 
austere,  and  strong ;  surrounded,  as  it  was,  by  ruins,  and 
flanked  by  solemn  forests.  It  rose  invincible,  hoary,  and 
almost  sardonic  in  its  unornamented  steadfastness,  with  its 
one  shoulder  gone,  like  some  old  pensioner  of  grisly  war, 
alone  among  dead  comrades  and  an  alien  world.  The  soft 
winds  from  Margaret's  Brae  came  coquetting  with  it  in 
summer,  the  birds  made  continuous  overtures  to  friendship, 
the  Shiel  hummed  its  variable  song  to  its  stones,  and  the 
fierce  winds  of  winter  ran  bouncing  down  upon  it:  but  it 
was  silent,  grey,  persistent,  and  cynical  with  time.  If  ever 
its  mouldy  coldness  was  warmed,  till  some  reflection  of  its 
old-time  memories  wakened,  it  was  when  Jean's  voice  had 
rung  in  the  vaulted  chambers — hers  and  Bruce's,  and  that 
of  her  mother  before  her.  Then,  maybe,  a  king  of  Scot- 
land walked  again  in  the  lofty  guest-chamber,  and  out.  on 
the  terraces  beautiful  highborn  lasses  wandered — gentle, 
pensive  guests,  who  had  here  seen  bright  hours  shuttle  in 
and  out  of  hfe.    •   '^      "  •  ' 

The  terraces  were  pleasanter  to  think  on  than  the  dun- 


A    COURT  OF  APPEAL. 


geons.  Often  Jean  had  gone  below  to  look  at  them,  not 
from  any  morbid  feeling,  but  because  she  knew  the  history 
of  many  brave,  and  sometimes  scandalous,  men  who  had 
lain  in  these  windowless,  noisome  places.  She  had  lifted 
up  the  trap-door  of  the  great  draw-well,  wondering  if  it 
had  ever  a  tragedy  also — had  been  the  grave  of  some  ad- 
venturous and  unlucky  visitor.  This  idea  had  also  pos- 
sessed Bruce  in  his  younger  days,  and  he — for  the  well  was 
narrow — had  put  a  candle  in  his  hat,  and,  with  a  slight 
rope  attached  to  his  body,  had  climbed  down,  as  far  as  he 
could  go,  and  probed  the  water  with  a  long  stick,  while 
Jean  waited  overhead.  And  once,  too,  when  a  boy,  his 
father  had  put  him  in  a  dungeon  for  punishment,  ai^  he 
had  (to  frighten  them  when  they  should  come  to  look  for 
him)  actually  climbed  cautiously  down  the  sides  of  the 
well  without  rope  or  support  of  any  kind ;  and  when  his 
father,  after  searching  fruitlessly  in  great  fear,  had  ascended 
from  the  dungeons,  he  climbed  up  again  and  made  a  great 
noise.  Then  they  came  rushing  down,  but  he  was  found 
sitting  in  the  dungeon  singing ;  and  he  never  told  them 
where  he  had  been.  After  a  time  they  concluded  that  he 
had  discovered  the  great  subterranean  passage  which  was 
said  to  exist ;  and  though  he  had  not  done  so  he  was 
grateful  for  the  idea,  and  did  not  rest  until  he  had  discov- 
ered it :  and,  fortunately,  he  kept  it  secret,  for,  after  many 
years,  it  was  to  be  of  service  to  him.  He  was  a  madcap 
lad,  quick  with  his  hands  and  wits  too,  and  Jean  to-night, 
as  she  stood  looking  down  into  the  dusk,  remembered  the 
many  happy  days  they  had  had  among  the  hills;  and 
though  he  was  in  great  danger  and  she  was  very  sad,  some 
wild  prank  of  his  flashing  across  her  mind,  caused  her  to 
laugh  outright.     Her  teeth  showed  white  and  brilliant  at 


ill 


10 


THE   CHIEF  FACTOR. 


%\ 


her  red  lips,  and  her  eyes  were  full  of  a  fine-spun  fire,  so 
that  they  glowed  finely. 

"Aye,  aye,  ye  can  lauch,"  grimly  said  her  father  be- 
hind her,  *'  but  there'll  bena  lauchin'  for  him  ahint  prison 
doors  ;  and  I  gie  ye  my  word  as  a  man,  if  he  comes  here, 
I'll  hand  himower.  Little  he  thoucht  o'  me,  gamekeeper 
for  the  Earl,  and  livin'  in  his  castle,  when  he  went  scour- 
ing Cowrie  lands  wi'  his  gun  ;  for  it  might  hae  been  me 
lyin'  down  in  the  toon  wi'  a  broken  head  instead  o'  the 
ither.  .  .  .  But  he'll  no  come  here.  For  I'm  telt  he's 
either  got  awa'  across  the  hill,  or  is  hidin'  whaur  that 
wastrel  Brian  Kingley  kens  best :  twa  vagabonds  that  'd 
shaI||^  ony  place  that  wasna  passed  ower  to  the  shame  o' 
Babylon." 

'  And  the  old  man  fiercely  puffed  his  pipe,  and  brought 
his  hand  down  on  the  table  beside  him  angrily.  Jean 
wheeled  at  the  window,  and  very  slowly  and  indignantly 
said: 

**  You  speak  words  harsh  and  wicked  too,  faither.  Brian 
Kingley  and  Bruce  Fordie  are  no  saints,  as  we  a'  ken,  but 
no  yin  has  ever  said  that  they  ever  did  wilfu'  malice  tae 
man  or  woman,  or  shamed  ony  but  theirsels.  Doesn't 
everyane  ken,  didnaj^ken,  that  the  keeper  brocht  on  the 
fightin'  Wi*  Bruce  whan  there  was  nae  need  ?  An'  whatna 
else  is  there  against  him  or  Brian  Kingley,  that  isna  foolish 
mair  than  wicked  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  ken  weel  eneuch,"  the  old  man  replied,  lapsing, 
like  the  Dominie,  still  further  into  the  provincialism  of 
his  shire ;  though,  in  general,  his  education  was  above 
men  of  his  class.  He  had  been  well  schooled,  and  in  the 
first  days  of  his  married  life  had  lived  in  Edinburgh,  where 
he  had  married  his  wife,  bringing  her  with  Bruce  and  Jean 


A    COURT  OF  APPEAL. 


II 


to  Braithen  again.  "  I  ken  weel  eneuch,"  he  repeated  ; 
**the  Irish  hae  smooth  tongues,  and  this  yin  has  juist 
talkit  his  fool-talk  i'  yer  lug,  so  that  ye  fa'  doon  and  war- 
ship him.  But  a  wastrel  he  is  and  a  wastrel  he'll  be ;  and 
ye' 11  ken  o'  that  some  day.  Aye,  but  ye  needna  look  up 
so  shairp  at  me  !  Ye  hae  the  stiff-neckedness  and  temper 
o'  ane  that  went  afore  you." 

''  Ye're  speakin'  o'  my  mither  !  "  answered  the  girl,  still 
keeping  her  place  at  the  window,  her  voice  determined 
and  more  than  a  little  indignant.  ''Then,  if  that's  sae, 
though  she  was  yer  wife,  you  maun  speak  nae  more  o'  her 
tae  me  in  that  fashion.  What  my  mither  was  to  die  is 
mair  than  she  could  hae  been  tae  you,  faither.  I  k^h  ye 
wadna  say  ill  o'  her,  but,  when  ye're  angry,  as  noo,  you 
hae  a  way  o'  sneerin'.  There's  no  ane  in  the  glen  o'  the 
Shiel  but  speaks  o'  her  as  a  gude  wife  an'  a  fond  mither, 
and  if  she  didna  bend  to  yer  will,  faither,  maybe  it  wasna 
as  ye  wad  hae't,  but  it  wasna  a  sin,  and  it's  nae  sin  in  me. 
For  I'll  think  and  act  formysel'  when  I  believe  I'm  richt." 

John  Fordie  at  heart  liked  this  better  than  unconditional 
submission,  but  he  was  not  going  to  acknowledge  it  im- 
mediately. He  blew  a  great  cloud  of  smoke  and  replied 
gruffly,  but  only  with  a  half-pretended  sincerity:  "Aye, 
that's  the  way !  There's  nae  scriptures  in  the  minds  o' 
the  younsT  in  thae  degenerate  days.  They  dinna  ken  nor 
care  that  the  Bible  says,  '  Children,  obey  your  parents ;  * 
an'  auld  age  is  a  thing  to  be  heckled,  and  lads  and  lasses 
at  eighteen  ken  mair  than  their  fathers  at  saxty. '  * 

"No,  there  ye're  only  half  recht,  faither,"  the  girl 
calmly  replied ;  "  for,  if  the  Bible  says,  *  Children,  obey 
your  parents,*  it  says  as  weel,  *  Parents,  provoke  not  your 
children  to  wrath.'     Can  auld  age  claim  mair  respect  for 


I    I 
111 


\A 


12 


THE   CHIEF  FACTOR, 


111! 


iH 


III*!'' 


i' 


itsel'  than  is  due  juist  to  auld  age  ?  Years  dinna  aye  make 
folks  wise,  else  old  Dave  Howden  wad  ken  mair  than  you, 
for  he  is  ninety,  but  he's  like  a  feckless  laddie." 

"Oh,  aye,"  the  other  retorted,  with  a  grim  chuckle. 
"  However,  ye've  yer  mither's  gift  o'  the  gab,  and  a  bit 
reasonin'  too,  nane  mair.  .  .  .  And  come  here,  ma 
lass,"  he  added  with  a  rude  kindness,  "for  ye're  brave 
eneuch  to  flee  in  the  face  o*  Black  Fordie,  as  they  ca*  him, 
and  I'll  no  say  but  accordin'  to  your  lichts  ye're  richt 
eneuch,  but  that's  no  accordin'  to  my  lichts.  There's 
nae  lass  sae  clever  this  side  o'  Forth,  and  if  you  wadna 
fash  yersel'  aboot  yer  raff  o'  a  brither  and  that  Irishman, 
I'd  think  there'd  be  nane  yer  ekal  in  a*  Scotland:  "  and 
again  he  brought  his  fist  down  with  a  bang. 

Jean  slowly  retreated  from  the  window,  came  over,  and 
stood  in  front  of  her  father.     But  she  did  no  more. 

*'  Weel,  hae  you  nocht  to  say?  "  he  asked. 

Besides  the  strange  fact  that  she  never  had  a  spontaneous 
affection  for  her  father, — for  which  there  may  be  shown 
good  and  sufficient  reasons, — she  knew  that  he  had  not  yet 
softened  towards  Bruce.  She  stood  motionless,  a  little 
apart,  and  replied  :  "  I've  naethin'  mair  to  say  than  this, 
that  there's  trouble  upon  us,  and  ye'd  mak'  that  trouble 
waur  wi'  yer  hairdness,  faither.  Weel,  I'm  his  sister,  an' 
I  canna  show  a'  the  love  I  wad  to  you,  gin  ye'd  do  him 
scaith." 

Her  eyes  swam  with  tears,  but  her  lips  were  firm.  The 
old  man  suddenly  rose,  his  eyes  flashing  darkly,  and  his 
head  shaking  back  his  shaggy  black  hair.  He  stretched 
out  his  arm,  and,  grasping  her  shoulder,  was  about  to  speak 
in  aloud  and  angry  voice,  but  she  looked  him  fearlessly  in 
the  eye  with  such  affection,  sorrow,  and  indignation  min- 


A    COURT  OF  APPEAL. 


13 


gled,  that  his  anger  broke  down,  and  he  laughed  loudly. 
**  Here's  a  lass  that  dares  Black  Fordie  tae  his  face,  and 
cares  nae  mair  for  the  grip  o'  his  haun  than  the  Shiel  for 
the  clip  o'  a  salmon's  tail.  Had  it  been  a  hunner  years 
ago  ye  wad  hae  stude  at  the  market  cross,  afore  a'  the  folk, 
for  flytin'  at  yer  ain  faither ;  and  you  wad  takin'  ower  the 
coals  at  the  kirk,  and  I'll  no  say  but  wad  hae  deserved  it 
a'."  Here  he  laughed  again  and  looked  hard  at  her. 
"  She's  no  feard  of  Black  Fordie,  she's  no  feard  of  the 
kirk,  and  she's  no  feard  o'  the  Bible  !  .  .,  .  And  that 
comes  o'  the  bulks  she's  read,  and  the  company  she's  keepit, 
and  o'  foreigners  wha  teach  her  the  folly  o'  mad  kintras, 
for  bye." 

"You  mean  Benoni,  of  course,  faither,"  the  girl  said 
gravely,  yet  with  a  new  look  in  her  eyes. 

"  Aye,  auld  Benoni.  Ye  listen  tae  him  and  his  tales. 
A  vaugront,  wi'  rings  in  his  ears,  and  a  tousseled  heed,  an' 
a  raree  show ;  that  if  it  wasna  for  his  flute,  and  the  jokes 
he  cracks,  wouldna  be  worth  his  bite  and  sup  in  ony  cot- 
tage i'  the  land,  far  less  Cowrie  Castle.  ...  A  puir 
feckless  body,"  he  added,  peering  at  the  girl  as  if  to  read 
exactly  what  she  thought. 

'*  I  ken  ye  dinna  mean  thae  things  ye  say  about  Ben- 
oni," she  replied  smiling.  "  And  ye' 11  no  say  them  to  his 
face,  for,  whan  he  comes,  ye  sit  and  listen  tae  him  and  his 
flute  as  glaid  as  me  and  glaidder.  .  .  .  An'  why 
shouldna  I  listen  tae  him  and  like  him  ?  Ever  since  I  was 
a  wee  lassie  I've  kent  him  in  and  oot  o'  this  place,  as  I 
wad  ken  ane  o'  my  ain,  showman  or  no  showman." 

As  if  the  old  man  had  quite  forgotten  what  he  had  pre- 
viously said,  he  added,  less  grufily  and  a  little  abstractedly : 
**  Ye'll  maybe  see  him  the  nicht,  for  the  morn  is  Beltane." 


ill 
r  HI 


!■ :: 


=*1 


14 


THE   CHIEF  FACTOR. 


\\y\\\ 


Hi 


Fordie  suddenly  calmed  and  sat ;  the  girl  nodded  in  re- 
ply, and  went  over  to  the  loom  and  began  weaving. 

For  a  long  time  nothing  was  heard  save  the  flight  of  the 
shuttle  and  the  creak  of  the  i^edals ;  and  the  figures  of  father 
and  daughter  had  large  shadowy  outlines  in  the  imperfect 
light.  The  room  looked  imprcgnably  solitary.  The  very 
solidity  of  the  masonry,  the  absence  of  breaks  of  any  kind 
in  the  wall,  and  the  vaulted  floors,  gave  it  a  lonely  and 
prison-like  aspect,  in  which  the  loom  looked  almost  like 
an  instrument  of  torture,  and  the  girl  before  it  its  beautiful 
victim. 

The  building,  as  we  have  said,  had  made  its  impress  on 
the  man.  He  had  grown  granite-like  and  sombre ;  the  girl 
it  had  made  more  imaginative,  independent,  and  grave, 
than  her  years,  though  her  nature  was  sanely  cheerful. 

Now  and  again  as  she  worked  she  turned  to  look  at  her 
father  smoking  in  heavy  silence,  or  listened  towards  the 
window  as  if — an  impossible  thing  with  those  walls — to 
catch  a  step  from  the  courtyard.      ^      .  •■ 

The  time  was  moving  on  to  midnight.  They  were  evi- 
dently waiting  for  someone.  The  girl  was  weary,  and  the 
man  was  dozing  towards  the  fire,  when  there  suddenly  came 
a  faint  roll  of  rat-tat-tats  on  the  outer  door  of  the  Castle, 
echoing  and  multiplying,  as  they  palpitated  up  the  vaulted 
staircase. 

The  girl  sprang  to  her  feet ;  the  man  grasped  the  back  of 
a  chair  beside  him,  and  listened  before  he  rose.  She  picked 
up  a  candle  and  ran  towards  the  door  of  the  room.  **  Hark 
ye,  Jean  Fordie,"  said  the  father  darkly,  "if  it  be  him 
that's  brocht  shame  upon  us,  tell  him  if  he  comes  within 
thae  wa's  or  in  my  sicht,  I'll  gie  him  up." 

**  If  it  be  my  brither,"  she  replied  firmly  yet  respect- 


A    COURT  OF  APPEAL. 


15 


fully,  "  ye'll  no  gie  him  up.  And  ther'll  be  hidin'  for  him 
for  bye,  and  a  bit  frae  the  bread,  and  frae  what  mair  may 
be." 

"  If  it  be  your  brither  !  "  he  cried  angrily.  *^  If  it  be 
your  brither  r^  he  repeated  in  a  strange  tone,  "why,  I'll 

put  a  word  in  your  ear 1  "     He  paused,  as  if  he  had 

been  about  to  say  something  which  had  been  checked  in 
time.  "Well,  but  gae  your  ain  way,  and  rememl)er, 
whate'er  comes,  that  I  gae  yoM  warning." 

"Do  not  rail,  and  say  what  you'll  repent.  I|'s  rnair 
like  to  be  Benoni  than  my  brither." 

Again  the  sounds  blundered  up  the  stairs,  and  the  girl 
ran  through  into  the  darkness,  and  down  to  the  outer  door. 
She  did  not  ask  who  was  there,  but  shot  back  the  clanging 
bolts,  dropt  the  chain,  and  swung  the  massive  panel  open. 
She  was  about  to  lift  the  candle  above  her  head  to  see  who 
it  was,  but  a  figure  swiftly  entered,  and  taking  the  oak  from 
her  hand  pushed  it  to  with  a  jovial  force,  the  sounds  bois- 
terously repeating  themselves  above  and  below ;  and  then  a 
brusque  but  most  pleasant  voice  said  : 

"Well,  Jeanie,  the  old  man  comes,  you  see,  against 
Beltane  on  the  morrow.  But  'tis  a  grim  welcome  you  give 
with  a  dazed  face  and  never  a  word  from  your  lips,  my 
dear." 

"  It's  you,  Benoni,"  she  responded,  "  it's  you  !  " 

"  Yes :  whom  did  you  expect?  "  His  accent  was  little 
like  either  a  foreigner  or  a  showman.  It  was  not  the  voice 
of  a  gentleman,  yet  it  had  the  ring  of  self-possession,  knowl- 
edge, and  a  certain  natural  fineness,  through  which  merest 
traces  of  a  humble  origin  showed.  .  .  .  He  dropt  his 
hand  ever  so  gently  on  her  shoulder,  and  his  voice  took  a 
softer  key,  yet  not  too  serious,  as  he  continued :   "  Perhaps 


U 


w 


!l 


I!  '  I 


1.  J 


i6 


T//E   CHIEF  FACTOR, 


you  expected  the  lad  that's  been  playing  too  hard  and  too 
long  these  days,  and  is  giving  the  law  a  chase?  " 

"  Hoo  did  you  ken,  Benoni  ?  "  she  asked. 

"How  did  I  know?  You  must  go  to  travellers  for 
news,  Jeanie.     I  know  that  and  a  deal  more,  lass. " 

*'  Oh,  tell  me,  hae  ye  seen  him?  "  she  cried,  eagerly. 

"  I  know  where  he  is,"  was  the  reply,  **  and  he's  safe 
enough  for  the  moment,  and  out  of  the  country  he'll  be 
soon,  I  hope.  For  the  lad's  but  a  mad  callant,  with  no 
real  harm  in  him,  and  he  that  got  his  head  broke  brought 
it  on  himself." 

By  this  time  they  were  ascending  the  staircase.  "  Oh," 
the  girl  said  anxiously,  ''  I  wish  you  could  make  my  father 
think  that." 

The  man  wheeled  upon  her  gently,  a  singular,  look  in 
his  face.     ''  He — does — think  it,"  was  the  slow  reply. 

"  Na,  na,"  she  urged,  "he's  bitter  an'  hard  an'  wad 
gie  him  up." 

"John  Fordie  would  give  him  up,"  rejoined  the  old 
man,  "  but  he  shall  not,  and  he  shall  change  his  tune  this 
night,  maybe."  They  were  now  at  the  top  of  the  stair- 
case. The  old  man  tapped  her  hand  gently  with  his  fin- 
gers, delicate  as  a  woman's,  as  delicate  as  hers  almost,  and 
not  unlike  them  in  shape, — which  the  girl  herself  had  once 
noted — and  said  :  "  Your  heart's  in  the  right  place,  lassie. 
It's  right,  always  right.  And  don't  be  afraid,  for  there's 
many  a  way  out  of  the  woods,  if  the  axe  be  free  in  the 
hand,  and  the  heart  and  will  are  strong." 

She  looked  great  thankfulness  at  him.  "I  ken  you  will 
and  can  dae  something  for  Bruce, ' '  she  whispered.  * '  Ye' re 
wonderfu',  wonderfu*  !  " 

Then  they  entered  the  room.     Fordie  stood  where  Jean 


\:\ 


A    COURT  OF  APPEAL. 


17 


had  left  him,  his  \n\ye  still  poised,  his  brow  glowering,  his 
face  set  and  hard.  When  he  saw  who  it  .v^as  he  said 
bluffly:  ''It's  you,  is  it,  Benoni  ?  It's  you  that  comes 
like  a  ghaist  i'  the  nicht " 

"  With  a  raree  show  on  my  back  and  an  empty  stomach, 
and  ready  to  bandy  a  word  with  you,  Hlack  Fordie ;  for 
it's  six  months  since  I  crossed  the  doorstone  of  Cow  rie,  or 
clapped  a  hand  in  greeting,  and  there's  my  fist  as  fair  to 
you  and  yours  as  it's  been  these  many  years." 

The  gamekeeper  towered  over  the  little  man  heavily, 
but  the  latter  straightened  himself,  never  a  bit  daunted 
by  his  timid  height.  Then  Fordie  said  :  "I  kenned  ye'd 
come ;  for  whaur  the  carcases  o'  Beltane  are  the  Italian 
eagle  hae  his  hour.  But  'tis  a  bad  hour  for  the  lass  and 
me,  as  you  may  ken." 

Benoni's  eyes  followed  Jean  about  the  room,  as  she  pre- 
pared him  some  supper.  After  a  slight  i)ause  he  replied  : 
"  I  do  not  know  that  times  are  so  bad  that  you  need 
glower  like  that.  Black  Fordie.  For  it's  Bruce  you're 
thinking  on,  I  suppose.  Be  not  so  fierce  nor  downcast, 
for  the  lad  has  friends,  and  the  world  is  wide, — mighty 
wide  I  can  tell  you,  I  that's  travelled  it  round  and  round, 
now  here,  now  there,  with  a  bullet  in  my  leg  at  Aboukir, 
a  sabre  across  the  arms  at  Saratoga  in  the  land  where  the 
red  niggers  are,  a  dig  in  the  ribs  in  the  South  Seas  from 
the  kris  of  a  Malay,  and  a  nasty  bruise  in  Egypt.  I  tell 
you,  Black  Fordie,  you're  dour  over  the  lad's  mishap  ;  for 
it's  more  mishap  than  mischief.  The  world  has  millions 
not  so  good  as  he,  as  he'll  prove  to  a  trick  some  day." 

The  little  man  stretched  his  legs  before  the  fire,  and 
shook  his  head  in  emphasis,  so  that  the  gold  rings  in  his 
ears  clinked,  and  his  brown  hair  tossed  on  his  bronzed 


'i 


III 


l8 


THE  CHIEF  FACTOR. 


Ill* 


li|j 


forehead.  Fordie  sat  down  by  the  table,  and  looked  hard 
at  the  other,  but  answered  never  a  word :  which  seeing, 
Henoni  continued :  *'  Mighty  wide,  as  I  said,  is  the 
world ;  and  there's  chances  for  him,  if  he  gets  clear  of 
the  harriers—  thousands  of  chances  beyond,  better  than 
half-starving  here  or  getting  a  nasty  wind  broadside,  as  he 
swings  towards  the  trough  of  misfortune.  .  .  .  Didn't 
I  see  at  Halzie,  a  few  days  gone,  one  from  London  town, 
carrying  with  him  a  pleasant  invitation  to  a  handful  of 
brave  adventurous  Scot  lads,  from  a  great  company  that 
owns  land  in  British  America,  given  them  by  Charles 
Stuart  ?  And  that  man's  to  be  here  in  Braithen,  by  my 
invitation.  And  what  he  offers  is  what  I'd  take  myself, 
with  a  merry  heart,  if  I  was  forty  years  younger.  For,  off 
there,  if  it's  fighting  you  want,  you  can  get  thousands  of 
Indians  glad  of  the  chance,  and  there's  millions  of  beasts 
and  birds  free  to  your  gun  and  your  pot,  and  fish  without 
number.  Then,  if  it's  company,  there  are  the  gay  lads  by 
river  and  forest, — Ics  bon  voyageurs,  they  call  them,  with 
their  pipes  and  their  song  ;  and  Papists  though  they  be,  as 
fine  a  lot  of  comrades  as  ever  ran  water  or  land ; — well, 
there's  the  country  for  the  wild  lads  and  the  idle  lads  that 
their  fatheri  deny  and  the  lasses  love." 

The  old  man  paused  and  began  to  hum  the  chorus  of 
one  of  the  oldest  and  best  loved  song  of  the  voyageursy 
picked  up  by  him  when  in  Quebec  years  before :  - 

.  _    **  Sur  la  feuille  ron-don-don-don,  -  . 

,        ,'        ,  Sur  la  joli,  joli,  feuille  ronde."  . 

He  had  talked  much,  but  not  out  of  sheer  garrulousness. 
He  did  not  wish  to  give  Fordie  immediate  chances  for 
reply,  and  he  also  wished  to  convey  to  Jean's  mind  some 


Il:i:^ 


A    COURT  OF  APPEAL, 


19 


fresh  comfort  and  assurance  that  her  brother  had  a  friend 
on  the  watch  to  serve  him.  She  had  caught  at  his  pur- 
pose, and  as  she  made  his  supper  ready  she  threw  a  /glance 
or  two  of  exceeding  gratitude  to  him.  With  him  there 
she  seemed  a  different  Ixiing  ;  the  painful  but  beautiful 
energy  of  her  will  seemed  relaxed  ;  she  was  a  young  girl 
again ;  and  an  amber  light,  pensively  cheerful,  floated 
from  her  eyes.  Benoni,  (piito  unacknowledged  to  herself, 
took  a  place  almost  higher  in  her  affections  than  her  father 
— Benoni,  the  common  showman,  the  flute-player,  the 
vagrom  man. 

Fordie  had  remained  passive  but  yet  stern.  At  last  he 
said  :  *'  Ye  put  a  fair  face  on  a  bad  deed,  man.  I'll  nae 
talk  o'  the  matter  the  noo,  for  my  mind  is  made  up,  and 
it'll  hae  no  change,  whate'er  you  ken  or  say.  A  man  that 
poaches,  and  bludgeons  a  gamekeeper's  heid  is  nae  son  o' 
mine.     I've  passed  my  word,  and  I'll  no  leave  it." 

"  And  you'll  no  leave  it,"  remarked  the  other  musingly. 
Then  he  flashed  an  inscrutable  look  at  the  other  and  con- 
tinued :  **  You'll  leave  it  some  day,  Black  Fordie,  as  I've 
seen  many  another  do,  that  had  as  hateful  a  pride  and 
strong  a  will.  But  we'll  not  quarrel  about  it  now,  for 
there's  supper  that  the  best  lass  in  the  world  has  made  the 
sweetest  in  the  land. ' '     And  he  rose. 

''Ay,"  responded  the  other  less  grimly,  "draw  near. 
The  liquor  stands  waiting,  and  I'm  ready  to  crack  a  gos- 
sip wi'  ye."  ■  . 

Presently,  by  Benoni's  tact,  the  two  men  grew  warm 
over  talk  and  tale  of  the  country-side,  and  of  places  that 
Benoni  had  visited  during  the  past  six  months ;  and  then 
again  merged  into  memories  of  distant  years,  participated 
in  by  Fordie  a  little  sombrely,  by  Benoni  very  cheerfully. 


'       M 


:">Jare,^f.l,^m.^.,-^ ..^  .,.^.^... ..^ 


20 


T//E  CHIEF  FACTOR. 


From  which  it  may  be  gathered  that  Benoni  was  not  an 
Italian  at  alj.  He  was  indeed  of  English  birth,  but  had 
spent  his  early  years  in  Scotland.  What  these  early  years 
were  like  no  one  in  the  Shiel  Valley  except  John  Fordie 
knew ;  and  they  were  never  spoken  of  anywhere  save  in 
Cowrie  Castle.  There  was,  as  may  be  guessed,  a  secret 
between  these  two  men ;  but  what  it  was  may,  perhaps,  be 
told  in  its  bareness  later.  It  was  sufficient,  however,  to 
make  the  men  friends ;  and  though  Fordie  spoke  disrespect- 
fully and  petulantly  of  Benoni  to  Jean  occasionally,  the 
girl  knew  he  did  not  mean  it.  But  it  had  appeared  to  an 
acute  observer  that  Fordie  fretted  a  little  under  some  clause 
in  the  pact  of  their  friendship.  ^ 

No  one  south  of  the  Forth  knew  absolutely  that  Benoni 
was  not  what  he  represented  himself.  He  had  been  suc- 
cessfully merged  into  Benoni  the  Italian  showman  and 
flute-player.  He  could  speak  Italian,  and  it  was  not 
strange  that,  after  a  great  many  years  in  Britain,  he  should 
speak  English.  But  these  are  a  few  facts  of  his  history  : — 
After  a  certain  trouble  had  come  suddenly  upon  him,  he 
had  gone  to  London,  and  had  sunk  into  great  poverty. 
There  he  met  one  Benoni,  a  raree  showman,  and  was  be- 
friended by  him.  Afterwards  he  befriended  the  other, 
and  nursed  him  in  his  death -sickness.  When  Benoni 
died,  for  immediate  means  of  livelihood  he  possessed  him- 
self of  the  Italian's  show,  and  to  make  it  more  convincing 
dressed  himself  in  the  dead  ma'h's  clothes,  put  rings  in  his 
ears,  and  because  they  were  of  the  same  height  and  some- 
what alike  in  feature,  he  was  able  to  carry  on  the  harmless 
imposture.  It  grew  to  be  a  reality ;  Benoni  was,  as  it  were, 
re-incarnated ;  it  was  Solmes,  the  Englishman,  that  was 
dead,  Benoni  the  Italian  lived. 


A    COURT  OF  APPEAL. 


21 


He  had  an  abundant  humour,  a  warm  heart  and  a 
bronzed  skin ;  he  was  generous  to  the  poor  and  to  the 
young ;  his  show  was  the  best  that  ever  came  north  over 
the  border,  and  he  played  the  flute  with  an  astonishing 
skill.  Next  to  his  presence  at  Beltane  Fair,  his  flute  was 
most  desired  and  admired ;  especially  when  his  services 
were  asked  by  people  (who  dreaded  not  the  wrath  of  the 
minister)  for  a  dance  on  the  green,  or  in  the  Rob  Roy  Inn, 
— the  latter,  a  most  notable  function  in  the  history  of 
Braithen. 

If  there  was  one  thing  Black  Fordie  admired  more  than 
another  it  was  Benoni's  flute;  for,  well  as  the  piper  of 
Braithen  played,  he  was  as  nothing  beside  this  pseudo-Ital- 
ian who  had  sucked  up  the  airs  of  many  lands,  and  loved 
to  turn  them  out  with  his  own  variations,  threading  them 
with  the  hearty  honest  vein  of  a  Briton's  heart.  Benoni's 
words  sometimes  struck  Fordie  with  a  raw  plainness ;  he 
was  even  afraid  of  the  tongue  that  had  got  its  game  of 
expression  from  being  tempered  on  many  anvils;  but  his 
flute  never  gave  out  any  but  the  most  delightful  music.  It 
could  be  as  strong  as  the  bag-pipes  and  not  as  strident,  and 
as  soft  as  the  harp  with  a  hundred  times  its  softness. 

Sometimes  Benoni  must  be  urged  to  play,  for  he  was 
subject  to  impulses ;  but  to-night  he  needed  no  solicita- 
tion. 

As  the  men  talked  Jean  had  listened  long,  but  at  last 
got  up,  and  went  over  again  to  the  window,  and  looked 
down  into  the  courtyard ;  for,  try  as  she  would,  she  kept 
thinking  about  Bruce  and  his  danger ;  and  she  would  not 
have  been  surprised  to  see  him  or  feel  hi.n  looking  up 
at  her  from  the  stones  below.  She  looked  down.  She 
could  see  nothing ;  yet  she  felt  something,  she  knew  not 


Ililiil'' 


••"ftr-i 


!i 


!|;:iii 


!  :  ,i' 


22 


THE  CHIEF  FACTOR. 


what,  it  was  so  vague.     It  was  Andrew  Venlaw.     She  had 
looked  down  into  his  eyes,  not  seeing  them. 

Venlaw,  knowing  of  Bruce's  peril,  and,  for  her  sake, 
troubling  hirnself  about  it,  had  in  a  purposeless  kind  of 
way  come  out  to  the  Castle,  as  though  in  some  undefined 
fashion  he  might  be  able  to  help  her  or  her  brother ;  and, 
perhaps,  get  a  glimpse  of  her.  He  had  been  over  in  the 
hills  or  he  had  come  before.  He  could  not  call  to-night, 
it  was  so  late ;  but  to  be  near  where  she  lived  was  a 
comfort  to  him.  His  lover-like  sincerity,  though  some 
might  call  it  foolishness,  was  rewarded.  As  he  stood  in 
the  open  entrance-gate,  one  hand  resting  on  the  ancient 
masonry  and  his  face  upturned  to  the  lighted  window, 
Jean  appeared  before  it  and  looked  straight  down  into  the 
dusk  where  he  stood.  It  was  strange  to  feel  the  light  of 
her  eyes  piercing  the  dark,  piercing  him,  making  his  heart 
tremble  for  joy.  Her  figure  was  darkly  outlined  against 
the  imperfect  light  behind  her  ;  it  seemed  to  have  an  at- 
mosphere of  its  own,  such  as  so  beautifully  surrounds  a 
planet.  Only,  with  her,  the  atmosphere  was  lighter  than 
herself — a  kind  of  golden  haze  which  seemed  to  pass  from 
her  person  and  softly  fade  into  the  dim  air  around  her. 

She  stood  there  for  a  few  minutes,  and  he  never  stirred 
save  to  take  off  his  cap  with  a  grave  gallantry,  as  if  he 
were  in  her  absolute  presence. 

At  last  he  said  to  her,  though  scarcely  above  a  whisper, 
which  of  course  she  could  not  hear — **  For  such  as  you,  as 
the  writer  says,  the  world  were  well  lost,  for  it'd  bring 
something  better.  And  as  for  death,  it  wouldn't  be  so 
hard  to  suffer  for  one  that's  like  the  flowers  I  gathered  for 
you  when  you  were  a  lassie.  Even  the  wicked  can  die 
well  where  they  love  well,  I'm  thinking." 


A   COURT  OF  APPEAL, 


23 


It  was  at  this  moment  that  Benoni  lifted  his  flute  and, 
putting  it  together,  drew  from  it  a  sound  as  true  and  soft 
as  the  note  of  a  divine  singer,  a  full  persuasive  tone  that 
crept  into  one's  soul,  and  went  swimming  gently,  royally, 
through  it.  At  this  Jean  turned  quickly  and  sat  down  by 
the  fire-place,  and  so  left  Andrew  in  the  dark.  But  he, 
catching  the  music  faintly,  crept  over  to  the  hard  walls, 
until  he  stood  beneath  the  window,  through  which  it  came, 
though  distantly.  The  air  was  familiar  and  yet  all  was 
unfamiliar  and  uncommon. 

Fordie  sat  blowing  clouds  of  smoke  about  his  sombre 
face,  but  not  stirring  hand  or  foot ;  a  statue  brooding  and 
passive,  if  not  complacent.  Jean's  face  was  rapt.  Benoni 
played  as  if  he  were  Amphion  causing  the  stones  of  Thebes 
to  rear  and  cement  themselves  together  upon  massive 
walls ;  as  though,  indeed,  he  could  bid  these  walls  of  Cow- 
rie, in  their  immense  thickness,  to  crumble  and  scatter 
upon  the  earth. 

The  candle  burned  to  its  socket,  and  he  played  on. 


^4 


'  'ii 


I  ^-l 


The  fire  at  last  sank  to  glowing  ashes,  and  the  faces  of 
the  three  were  in  gloom  ;  but  still  they  sat  there,  and  still 
the  music  throbbed  about  them.  It  was  dark  everywhere ; 
but  the  melody  pierced  the  night,  and  it  had  seemed  that 
in  that  Castle  and  in  all  Scotland  there  was  nothing  but 
joy.  Yet,  not  very  far  away,  two  men  sat  together  in  a 
hut  which  they  had  crept  to  in  the  dark,  and  one  said  to 
the  other :  **  Bruce,  me  boy,  out  of  this  you'll  have  to 
cut  somewhere  to-morrow.  The  break  must  be  made. 
For  I'm  certain  when  you  and  I  and  Benoni  were  talking 
to-day  beyond,  some  one  heard  us.  The  flyin'  footstep 
was  there  as  sure  as  guns,  and,  bedad  !  I  thought  I  caught, 


^  .  n 


I'l 


! 


liii'i 


I.  i. 


hi 


24 


THE   CHIEF  FACTOR. 


too,  the  flicker  of  a  woman's  petticoat,  bad  'cess  to  it ! 
Anyhow  they're  after  you  hot-foot,  and  hiding-places  are 
few.     You  must  make  a  run  for  the  coast,  me  boy." 

The  other  laughed  a  little  sardonically  and  replied  : 
"Brian,  lad,  I  tell  you  I'll  hide  at  the  Castle;  for  as  I 
said  before  I  ken  a  way  there,  kenned  by  nane  else :  the 
old  subterranean  passage ;  and  once  inside  the  place  I'll 
be  safe  eneuch  for  a  day  or  so,  or  longer  if  need  be." 

"Why  not  make  a  bold  break  straight  for  the  Castle, 
now,  and  never  mind  the  passage  ?  ' ' 

"  You  forget  that  father  wouldn't  let  me  in,  and  besides 
I  warrant  the  place  is  watched  close  eneuch. ' ' 

"Right  you  are,  me  darlin',  the  place  is  watched  I 
doubt  not.  Well,  if  it's  the  passage  under  ground,  luck 
be  with  you  !  And,  as  I  said,  I'll  join  you  at  Cowrie, 
goin'  myself  by  the  open  road.  If  you  once  get  clear,  and 
your  foot  over  the  wall  of  the  sea,  you'll  be  right  enough 
again,  and  Heaven  send  that,  say  I. ' 


>) 


Bruce's  suspicions  were  right,  for,  as  Andrew  Venlaw 
stood  by  the  wall,  he  heard  a  step  creeping  near,  and 
swinging  round  he  faced  an  officer,  who  had  suspected  him 
to  be  Bruce.  .         ^       ,  .-    ' 

In  the  Castle  the  old  man  was  still  playing;  but  the 
notes  were  faint,  and  delicately  distant. 


:'r- 


- 

1. 
■|! 

r 

i 

i 

1 

\ 

.i-i;' 

■;  i;, 

1 
!    !  1 

CHAPTER  II. 


AT   BELTANE   FAIR. 


As  the  Dominie,  flirting  a  pinch  of  snuff  at  his  nose, 
said — it  was  a  handsome  day.  From  the  ancient  fort  on 
Margaret's  Brae  it  hlted  down  upon  Braithen ;  it  blew 
gaily  to  the  Shiel  from  Glaishen  Water  ;  it  idled  out  from 
the  glen  of  the  Weddiner's  Hope ;  it  spun  blithely  about 
High  Street  in  the  royal  burgh ;  and  it  bounded  proudly 
on  the  fair  ground,  where  the  countryside  was  gathered — 
hinds  and  shepherds,  craftsmen  and  farmers,  bonnet- 
lairds,  and  lasses,  from  every  hamlet  in  the  valley  and  be- 
yond. A  bailie  showed  his  portly  form  here,  and  the 
provost,  as  became  him,  loomed,  mightily  patronising, 
among  the  merrymakers.  Even  a  few  gentry  were  pres- 
ent, riding  through  the  mannerly  crowd,  answering  salutes 
respectful  but  not  obsequious,  chatting  with  each  other, 
and  complacently  regarding  the  scene.  From  all  direc- 
tions clacking  carts  were  arriving,  and  a  heavy  coach  or 
two  from  Edinb'ro'  way  brought  visitors.  There  was 
plenty  of  colour,  and  an  amazing  heartiness  in  all.  Booths 
and  showmen  and  pipers  were  there  aplenty,  and  also  all 
sorts  of  athletes — wrestlers,  putters  of  the  stone,  runners, 
and  champions  of  short-swords  and  fantastic  gentlemen 
who  played  harleqiun :  but  the  greatest  share  of  interest 
was  centred  at  a  point  where  Benoni,  in  his  Italian  cos- 
tume, conducting  his   raree-show,   threw  bits  of  ginger- 


r   ..m 


rii 


,■,,7171 


I'll!! 


!   li 


\m 


i;i; 


26 


7W^5   CHIEF  FACTOR, 


bread  among  the  lads  scrambling  about  him.  It  was  not  a 
stately  figure,  but  it  had  an  air  of  confidence,  of  singular- 
ity, and  character ;  and  was,  on  the  whole,  impressive. 
The  velvet  of  his  jacket  was  old,  but  it  was  beautifully 
clean  ;  his  cape,  neatly  hung  upon  the  framework  of  the 
show  itself,  was  well  made,  and  he  boasted  a  very  respect- 
able pair  of  stockings  upon  a  pair  of  calves  which  a 
younger  and  a  taller  man  might  have  been  proud  to  pos- 
sess. And  as  for  his  show,  every  ring,  and  bit  of  metal, 
and  the  wood  itself,  was  beautifully  polished. 

Benoni  looked  shrewdly  but  kindly  out  upon  the  lads 
and  the  crowd  at  large ;  a  look,  indeed,  which  signified 
measurement,  mastery,  and,  maybe,  a  genial  sort  of  con- 
tempt :  as  who  does  not  feel  it  that  has  travelled,  seen, 
gathered,  and  known  how  like  sheep  human  beings  mostly 
are  ?  Yet  there  was  in  him  that  perfect  humour  which  is 
God's  salt  to  nature,  lest  man  should  take  himself  or  his 
little  world  too  seriously.  So  here  and  there  he  dropt  a 
phrase  of  comment  upon  men  and  things  about  him,  now 
in  French,  now  Spanish,  now  Polynesian,  and  very  fre- 
quently in  broad  Scotch;  the  last  for  his  hsteners,  the 
others  for  his  own  pleasure — for  he  had  a  trick  of  talking 
to  himself.  He  enjoyed  the  mystification  of  those  who 
speculated  regarding  him,  not  so  many  now  as  formerly. 
Though  he  chatted  to  the  idlers  about  him,  and  lightly 
did  his  professional  duties,  an  acute  observer  would  have 
noticed  that  he  was  watching  the  outskirts  of  the  crowd 
and  the  new  arrivals,  as  if  expecting  some  one.  His  mind 
was  preoccupied,  though  he  never  failed  in  the  point  of 
his  immediate  remarks. 

Presently  a  fresh  horseman  appeared  on  the  ground.  He 
had  apparently  ridden  hard.     He  sat  for  some  time  looking 


AT  BELTANE  FAIR. 


.27 


at  the  crowd  indolently.  His  glances  rested  chiefly  on  the 
young  men,  and  not  on  the  young  women,  as  might  be 
expected  of  one  yet  to  travel  the  downward  incline  of 
years.  He  presently  fixed  his  eyes  upon  a  stalwart  dark- 
featured  young  man,  standing  not  far  from  him.  This 
young  man,  Andrew  Venlaw,  was  himself  scanning  the 
crowd  as  if  searching  for  somebody.  All  at  once  the  rider 
saw  Benoni,  and  said  aloud,  though  to  none  but  himself, 
— **  Ah,  my  friend  of  the  many  languages — the  wonderful 
pantaloon  !  So  he  has  kept  his  word,  and  I've  kept  mine 
with  him.  A  marvellous  partnership  truly,  Mr.  Ashley 
Moore;  but  I  owe  him  something,  and  he  can  help  me 
here  too."  So  ruminating,  he  pushed  through  the  people 
slowly  to  the  showman,  raising  his  hat  to  those  he  discom- 
moded. He  came  within  arm's  length  of  Benoni.  "  Well, 
signor,"  he  said,  "  we  meet  again.  Salutations  to  you  !  " 
The  voice  had  a  ring  of  heartiness. 

**  Good-day  to  you,  sir — Adventurer,"  said  Benoni 
softly  and  humorously,  casting  up  his  eyes  and  taking  the 
outstretched  hand  of  the  other  ;  "  either  I've  walked  hard, 
or  you've  dawdled  by  the  way." 

*'  You've  mastered  our  speech  fairly,  signor ;  dawdled  is 
an  unusual  word  in  a  foreigner's  mouth.  .  Still,  I  dawdled, 
as  you  say.  But  I'll  not  keep  you  from  your  fortune-mak- 
ing ;  this  is  your  golden  hive.  Your — ^how  should  I  say 
it  in  classic  term?  " 

''Would  ariston  metron  help  you?"  said  the  other 
slyly. 

The  rider  raised  his  hands  in  astonishment,  not  all 
mockery.     ''Greek  too,  signor?     Indeed,  we're   getting 


on. 


?> 


?f,'V 


m 


I.  :j 


"  If  you've  a  word  for  my  ear  as  I  have  for  yours,"  said 


*,.' 


\^'. 


28 


r/f£  CHIEF  FACTOR. 


Benoni,  lowering  his  voice,  '*  there's  no  reason  why  we 
should  not  set  the  line  spinning  now,  and  reel  it  in  at  a 
more  convenient  hour.  I  know  what  you  want — a  small 
handful  of  men  of  courage  and  endurance,  to  complete  the 
list  of  those  going  with  you  to  the  business  of  the  great 
Company  of  Adventurer  in  the  New  World. ' ' 

**  You  have  it  pat,  Signor.  'Tis  not  every  man  I  want 
will  come,  nor  every  man  that'll  come  I  want.  This  enter- 
prise we  are  pushing  now  needs  men  of  girth  and  substance 
— body  and  will ; — for  the  mind,  that's  not  so  great  a  mat- 
ter. Now,  see  that  strapping  youth  over  there ;  he  looks 
likely  enough ;  he  has  a  reach  of  arm,  an  invincible  kind 
of  body,  and  a  massive  chin  that  holds  itself  well :  that's 
the  kind  of  man  for  me,  and  for  the  Company  too,  who  call 
for  good  Scotsmen  before  all  others.  For,  once  out  in  the 
wilds,  on  the  neck  of  the  earth  as  the  Hudson's  Bay  country 
is,  whoever  go  cannot  turn  back ;  and  either  become  good 
soldiers,  and  trappers,  and  clerks,  and  factors,  or  are  our 
curses,  alienating  the  tribes,  trading  stealthily  for  them- 
selves, and  flying  the  brave  flag  of  the  H.  B.  C.  on  a  dirty 
wind.  And  there's  the  truth  for  you,  signor.  Now,  what 
about  yonder  buck  ?  " 

**  He  is  what  you  want  and  a  deal  more,  sir,  but  I  doubt 
that  you  get  Andrew  Venlaw  to  go  with  you.  He's  a  very 
skilful  and  learned  and  ambitious  lad,  and  looks  for  better 
— and  deserves  better — work  to  his  hand  than  tht  Arctic 
regions  give." 

*<  Oh,  is  he  then  so  skilful  and  learned  and  ambitious? 
Then  look  out,  Signor  Showman  !  for  such  men  come  into 
unusual  trouble  with  themselves.  I  doubt  not  this  same 
paragon  of  yours  would  be  glad  enough  one  day,  in  the 
sourness  and  disappointment  of  his  heart,  to  join  our  ranks ; 


>l 


1 , 

1; 

hi! 

ilil 

w 

;> 


AT  BELTANE  FA  IK. 


29 


)ut  then  it  will  be  too  late.     However,  I  like  his  looks 

incommon  well, — so  well  he  should  be  advanced  quickly  if 

le'd  come — and  I'll  have  my  say  with  him  wliellier  or  no. 

''or  you  never  can  guess  what's  behind  a  big  serious  face 

like  that.     There  are  still  women  in  the  world,  and  where 

women  are  masters  men  are  fools."     And  the  rider  tossed 

his  horse's  mane  lightly  with  his  hand.     -  fc 

<*  One  would  think  you  were  the  old  Dominie,  speaking 
so  about  women  ;  but  I'll  still  be  of  the  opinion  that  men 
are  the  better  when  women  are  masters,  and  know  how  to 
rule."  '      ■    '^'  ■ 

The  showman  paused.  He  looked  hard  at  Venlaw,  and 
his  mind  was  full  of  the  scheme  the  lad  cherished  regarding 
Jean — a  scheme  of  which  he  himself  thought  well.  Pres- 
ently he  continued : — 

*'  Just  wait  a  minute  till  I  clinch  the  eyes  of  these  lads 
on  my  show  and  take  their  bawbees.  I've  one  word  more 
for  you  to  think  on  before  we  meet  again  (I  hope)  this 
evening.  And,  while  I  think  of  it,  I  beg  you  not  to  go 
to  the  Rob  Roy  Inn.  It  will  be  overcrowded.  But  you'll 
find  good  fare  at  the  little  Salmon's  Head  there  just  at  the 
nose  of  the  bridge.  I  have  told  them  you  were  like  to 
come.  And  now  this  :  I  can  put  you  on  the  track  of  one 
and  maybe  two  proper  fellows,  as  I  hinted  days  ago ;  but 
I  caution  you  they're  not  quite  of  those  whom  the  Kirk 
blesses,  nor  on  whom  it  thrives.  One  is  a  gentleman  come 
to  nought  through  extravagance  and  wildness,  but  a  man 
of  heart  and  courage;  the  other,  with  too  great  a  taste 
for  adventure  in  a  country  of  limited  freedom,  swung  his 
gun  shoulderwards  at  forbidden  game,  and  then  cracked 
the  head  of  a  gamekeeper.  But  he's  a  lad  worth  all  sorts 
of  trouble,  and  has  sound  things  in  him,  I  know." 


i.  ■  i  f 


\ 
fill 


%■. 


30 


THE  arrEF  factor. 


'Tl 


!iv 


The  rider  thought  a  minute,  and  then  responded, — 

"  You  gloze  the  matter,  I  see,  but  what  has  happened 
to  these  men,  if  they  are  of  the  right  sort,  I  promise  you 
shall  not  influence  me  against  them.  For  I  believe  in  no 
man,  good  or  evil,  until  I  have  levelled  an  eye  on  him, 
and  measured  him  myself,  according  to  the  measure  of  the 
H.  B.  C.  And,  indeed,  I  owe  you  something  for  a  week 
ago,  for  I  should  have  been  sleeping  coldly  in  that  bog  at 
this  minute  were  it  not  for  you.  I'll  do  what  I  can  for 
these  men  as  freely  as  you  toss  your  gingerbread  among 
the  lads  there,  if  I  can." 

In  a  word  or  two  they  arranged  to  meet  in  the  evening 
at  the  Salmon's  Head,  and  then  the  rider,  or,  Mr.  Ashley 
Moore,  as  he  had  called  himself,  nodding  pleasantly, 
moved  away  through  the  crowd.  _       . 

This  conversation  had  been  carried  on  undei:  consider- 
able difficulties,  for  the  showman  had  all  the  time  at- 
tended to  his  duties,  calling  out  also  to  the  crowd  now 
and  then  in  the  interstices  of  their  talk,  which  was  car- 
ried on  n  French,  when  there  appeared  to  be  inquisitive 
listeners.  Now,  Benoni  said,  somewhat  gravely  and  sadly 
to  himself  as  the  other  left  him, — **  He  wondered  about 
the  Greek !  The  little  bits  left  from  that  year — that 
year  !  "  And  straightway  he  went  on  with  his  showman's 
work,  but  keeping  an  eye  to  the  rider,  and  still  watching 
for  some  one  else  expected. 

The  rider  came  up  to  Venlaw,  and  said  pleasantly, — 
"  Good-day  to  you,  Mr.  Venlaw." 

Andrew  looked  up  slowly,  for  he  had  been  thinking  hard, 
and  responded,  scrutinising  respectfully  the  other's  face, — 
*'  Good-day  to  you,  sir,  but  I  don't  remember  your  face." 

^*  That  is  probable,  but  there's  no  reason  why  you  should 


■llliixil!: 


///'  nF.l.TAXE   FAIR. 


31 


not  know  it  and  me  too  in  the  future  ;  for- 1  hope  we  may 
become  l)etter  acquainted." 

*<  As  to  that,"  said  Andrew,  drawing  himself  up  a  Httle, 
|*<  I  cannot  say,  for  I  do  not  know  what  you  have  in  your 
mind  on  which  to  build  an  acquaintance." 

"  None  other  than  our  mutual  benefit ;  for,  listen,  Andrew 
'Venlaw,  I  know  the  stuff  that's  in  you, — if  you  will  i)ardon 
me  for  saying  so — and  I  know  your  reputation.  Men  speak 
well  ox  you,  and,  as  I  judge,  rightly  so.  I  have  come  up 
here  from  London  looking  for  staunch,  able, — ambitious, — • 
Scotsmen  to  do  men's  work  in  God's  country.  Well,  my 
friend,  Signer  Benoni,  gave  me  your  name  and  more  be- 
sides to  your  credit.  And  so,  Mr.  Venlaw,  if  you've  a 
mind  open  to  receive  good  things,  I'll  pour  them  into  it 
with  a  will." 

Andrew  again  looked  the  other  up  and  down  respectfully, 
and,  as  if  satisfied  with  his  inquisition,  glanced  over  towards 
Benoni,  then  back  again  to  his  interlocutor,  and  gravely 
responded  :  **  I  doubt  not  you  are  acting  for  the  Hudson's 
Bay  Company  of  which  I  have  read,  and  you  want  men  to 
become  their  servants  and " 

"And  their  officers  and  to  rule,"  interposed  the  other 
oracularly.  **To  trade  like  honest  adventurers;  to  gain 
money  for  themselves  and  the  company  ;  to  fight  if  need  be ; 
to  live  a  life  of  activity,  courage,  and  industry  ;  to  make  a 
country — the  pleasantest,  noblest  privilege  of  man." 

"  You  put  it  bravely,  sir,"  said  Andrew,  his  eyes  light- 
ing at  the  vigour  and  art  of  the  other's  words,  *'  but  I  fear 
you  and  I  can  do  no  business ;  for  I  must  stay  in  Scotland, 
which  is  quite  large  enough  for  me — and  God's  country 
too,  as  I  think.  And  I  thank  you  kindly,  but  we  can  get 
nothing  by  talk  with  each  other,  and  I  beg  you,  sir,  excuse 


x 


'!   A 


■  \\ 


ill 

M 


32 


TfiE  crrrF.F  factor. 


ill 


liSGv 


',PI 

ilil: 


I  ■■ 


■■i 
'Ml  iih 

\\  "C: 


me."  And  raising  his  cap,  he  turned  away  briskly.  The 
last  words  were  spoken  hurriedly.  The  other's  eyes  fol- 
lowed him  until  he  joined  Jean  Fordic,  whom  he  had  seen 
near  them  just  towards  the  close  of  the  conversation. 

At  this,  Mr.  Moore,  nodding  to  himself,  said,  satiri- 
cally :  **  So,  there's  the  spring  of  his  loyalty  to  Scotland. 
Well,  for  such  as  she  appears  I  can  blame  him  little  ;  though 
I  doubt,  with  a  terrible  doubt,  from  the  way  she  meets  him, 
that  there's  joy  on  the  wing  for  him  there.  Better  for  him 
if  he  made  success  his  mistress,  instead.  For  if  there's  a 
thing  that's  like  unequal  war  in  the  teeth  of  a  man,  it  is  a 
woman  that's  got  no  heart  for  him,  while  he's  full  of  love 
to  the  eyes  for  her ;  or  one  that  oughtn't  to  care  for  him, 
and  does ;  or,  worse  than  all,  one  that's  wicked — the  mill- 
stone round  the  neck  of  a  mortal.  Well,  well,  we  shall  see 
what  we  shall  see  !  " 

And  so  saying,  he  rode  away  out  of  the  fair  ground,  up 
into  High  Street,  and  down  past  the  market-cross  to  the 
Salmon's  Head,  where  he  gave  his  horse  to  an  ostler,  and 
ordered  breakfast ;  for,  late  in  the  day  as  it  was,  he  had 
not  yet  eaten. 

Benoni  watched  closely  the  meeting  of  Andrew  and 
Jean,  and  commented  upon  it  to  h.  ..jelf ;  while,  at  the 
same  time,  he  amused  the  people  about  him  by  his  chaff 
and  playful  satire.  **  No,  Andrew,"  he  said  beneath  his 
breath,  **I  fear  there's  no  luck  for  you  there — and  that's 
a  wonderful  pity,  for  I'd  give  my  right  hand  to  see  it. 
You're  a  fine  handsome  fellow  and  she'll  travel  far  in  the 
world  ere  she  does  better ;  but  you  can  no  more  match 
human  beings  than  you  can  the  birds  or  the  fishes ;  the 
human  heart  is  a  kittle  thing,  and  women  are  kittle  cattle 
,     ,     .     kittk  cattle,"  and  he  shook  his  head  very  gravely 


AT  BE  IT  AM':  lAlR. 


33 


vit  an  astonished  lad  who  was  ofTering  liim  a  fartliing  for 
gingerbread.  "She  has  an  eye — and  that's  not  a  busi- 
ness I  hke — for  that  mad  gentleman,  Brian  Kingley  ;  and 
the  end  is  not  easy  to  see.  lUit  he'll  be  off,  I  hope, 
to  America  soon,  and  she'll  forget  him.  He  tares  noth- 
ing for  her,  I'm  bound,  and  that's  better  for  her,  dear 
hiss." 

Jean's  eyes  were  not  for  Andrew  this  morning  ;  but  he 
did  not  see  that  clearly,  for  women — even  the  l)est — do 
not  show  their  minds  with  absolute  plainness  at  all  times. 
She  had  come  to  the  fair,  chiefly  at  Benoni's  reciuest  ;  for 
he  had  urged  upon  her  father  and  herself  the  wisdom  of 
the  action  \  so  giving  colour  to  a  growing  supposition  that 
Bruce  had  escaped  to  the  coast.  It  was  upon  the  same 
basis  that  Benoni  had  asked  Brian  to  come ;  for  the 
opinion  was  also  abroad,  that  he  knew  accurately  the 
whereabouts  of  the  hunted  youth.  The  general  feeling 
was,  perhaps,  in  favour  of  Bruce's  escape,  especially  since  it 
was  now  believed  the  gamekeeper  would  live ;  but,  never- 
theless, there  was  no  diminution  in  the  vigilance  and  ac- 
tivity of  the  officers  of  the  law,  who  were  aided  in  the 
search  by  a  company  of  soldiers,  garrisoned  in  the  place  at 
the  time,  and  commissioned  to  assist  the  civil  authority  on 
such  interesting  occasions. 

To  Jean,  Andrew's  emphatic  attention  this  morning  was 
almost  irritating,  though  she  was  angry  with  herself  be- 
cause she  felt  so.  While  he  somewhat  stumblingly  talked 
to  her,  her  eyes  wandered  over  the  crowd  intent  yet  ab- 
strafcted.  She  was  the  object  of  much  remark,  but  she 
seemed  to  be  unconscious  of  that.  She  had  a  proud  nat- 
ure, and  much  as  Bruce's  misdoing  and  danger  fretted  her, 
she  still  could  look  fearlessly  in  the  eyes  of  the  world; 


I 


Ml 


11 


;j*  I 


■^r-* 


//' 


I 


■    ! 


i;!!:i'!in 


1^ 


lllllil 

'  iij 

:J      111 


I 

iPil    I 

lilil: 


i'     I  ! 


I'll! 

iiiiiii 


i  i  11 


I: 

j   : 
'  :    i 

1 1 . , 

i  , 

i; 

i 

i 
i 

.1 

t 

ill 

1     ' 

1 

34 


T//E   CHIEF  FACTOR. 


for,  young  as  she  was,  she  had  arrived  at  the  knowledge 
that  its  condemnation  or  momentary  execration  could  not 
affect  a  life  in  the  long  run.  This  had  been  somewhat 
due  to  the  teaching  of  Benoni,  who,  showman  as  he  was, 
had  probed  the  heart  of  the  big  masquerade,  which  is  only 
reality  by  the  family  hearthstone  and  in  the  closet.  Jean 
possessed  uncommon  courage,  as  the  after-events  of  her  life 
showed  ;  and  she  was  so  little  self-conscious  that  she  did 
not  realise  how  much  an  object  of  interest  ,she  was,  until 
her  father,  heavy-browed,  and  massive  as  usual,  stalked 
thrc'jgh  the  crowd  towards  her.  Then  she  appeared  to 
see  the  equivocal  looks  cast  upon  them  both,  and  heard 
women — of  less  beauty  than  herself — ^jeer  at  her  ;  while 
one  close  behind  her  said  to  another  :  **  See,  Elsie,  she's 
set  oot  like  a  peacock's  feather,  and  struttin'  i'  pride,  and 
her  ain  brither's  a  poacher,  and  a'  but  a  murderer,  whiles. 
She'll  no  wark  i'  the  mills  wi'  the  ither  lasses,  weavin'  like 
yoursel,  Elsie  ;  but  just  has  her  ain  loom  i'  the  Castle  as 
'twere  the  harp  o'  a  lady  o'  blood,  forbye,  the  minx  !  " 

Venlaw  heard  these  v/ords,  and  he  winced  under  them, 
then  grew  indignant,  his  face  flushing  hotly.  But  Jean, 
who  had  also  heard,  said  to  him  quietly  :  **  She  doesna 
mean  it,  Andrew ;  it's  only  that  she  likes  sayin'  bitter 
things."  -       :.  .  * 

>  Black  Fordie  approached  them,  his  face  lighting  up  as 
he  sav,'  Andrew,  and  he  clapped  his  hand  on  the  young 
man's  shoulder,  with  the  words  :  ''  Good-day,  to  you,  lad. 
I'm  prood  to  see  that  ye  dinna  turn  yer  back  on  an  auld 
frien'  like  some,  I  ken," — and  he  glanced  about  him — 
"  Hke  some  worthies — and  fools,  I  ken,"  he  added  ;  *'  and 
at  Cowrie  Castle,  whaur  ye' re  fain  to  come,  I  ken,  we'll 
be  aye  glad  to  gie  ye  bit  welcome,  though  we're  less  by 


AT  BELTANE  FAIR, 


35 


ane  than  when  you  cam  last ;  and  we'll  be  aye  less  by  that 
ane,  whatever  !  "  ' 

Venlaw  grasped  the  other's  hand  and  said  a  manly  word 
or  two ;  but  what  they  were  he  could  not  tell,  for  his  mind 
was  full  of  the  general  significance  of  the  event.  This 
emphatic  greeting  while  he  was  with  Jean  in  public,  the 
almost  ostentatious  clasp  of  possession  in  the  old  man's 
hand  on  his  shoulder,  his  words  of  decisive  invitation, 
started  in  him  a  throbbing  sense  of  delight.  The  incident 
had  been  watched  by  many,  and  knowing,  as  they  did, 
that  Andrew  had  never  shown  preference  for  anyone  in  the 
valley  but  Jean,  and  that  Black  Fordie  had  admitted  no 
one  as  a  suitor  heretofore,  it  was  almost  like  an  acknowl- 
edgment of  Andrew's  acceptance  as  a  son-in-law.  Jean 
felt  the  position  too,  and  shrank  almost  perceptibly  from 
it ;  and  her  eye  wandered  over  the  throng  again  with  a 
hint  of  present  trouble  in  it.  But  she  stood  very  still  and 
talked  to  Andrew,  as  impassively  as  she  could.  Andrew 
saw  her  wandering  look,  and,  with  the  acuteness  of  the 
lover,  guessed  whom  she  was  seeking.  He  knew,  though 
he  had  seen  Brian  and  the  girl  very  little  together,  that 
Jean  was  not  unimpressionable  where  the  Irishman  was 
concerned.  He  had  regarded  it  as  the  fascination  which  a 
man  of  gentle  birth  and  graces  of  manner  has  for  a  girl, 
lowly  born,  but  with  instincts  and  capacities  above  her 
rank  ;  and  he  had  always  assured  himself  that  it  was  a 
mere  pas.sing  fancy ;  for  Brian,  himself,  seemed  never  to 
pay  her  more  attention  than  any  other  woman.  Had  An- 
drew known  that  this  was  all  the  more  likely  to  raise  the 
flame  in  Jean's  heart,  he  would  have  been  more  apprehen- 
sive. 

But  there  was  one  whose  concern  regarding  that  incident 


I. 


I  ri 


ill' 


,1 1 


il!|!Hf'''!' 


111  iii'i.t 

I'M'!   '".,■ 


36 


T//E   CHIEF  FACTOR. 


with  Black  Fordie  was  more  notable  than  that  of  either 
Andrew  or  Jean.  Elsie  Garvan,  to  whom  the  scandalised 
critic  had  just  been  calling  Jean  a  minx,  had  an  angry  and 
disturbed  heart  this  morning.  In  so  far  as  Venlaw  liked 
Jean  Fordie,  she  disliked  her ;  and  a  disappointed  and 
bitter  woman  is  not  of  pleasant  or  profitable  company  in 
the  world.  Of  a  strong,  hearty,  but  bold  kind  of  beauty, 
Elsie  had  a  strain  of  hardness  in  her ;  and  it  would  give 
her  nerve  to  do  a  cruel  thing,  if  tempted  greatly.  Ever 
since  a  child  she  had  cared  for  Andrew  Venlaw  ;  and  now 
she  would  give  half  her  lifetime  to  have  him  look  at  her 
as  he  .vas  looking  at  lean.  Many  a  Sunday  she  had  (at 
first,  hesitatingly,  shyly,)  placed  herself  in  his  way  as  he 
came  from  church  ;  and  again  on  week-days,  as  he  went  to 
and  from  his  work  ;  but  she  never  had  got  from  him  more 
than  the  simple  greetings  and  companionable  interchanges 
of  friendly  acquaintances.  She  was  a  girl  of  many  re- 
sources, and  she  persisted  ;  for,  to  her,  love  was  a  game, 
and  she  played  it  crudely,  but  heartily  and  hungrily.  She 
saw  no  harm  in  doing  her  utmost  .to  win  the  man  she 
loved  ;  and  many  another  lass  of  higher  degree  has  thought 
and  acted  the  same  up  to  this  point  in  her  career.  It  may 
be  that  the  well-born  lady  has  even  gone  as  far  as  Elsie 
soon  would  go.  For  this  girl  had  a  weapon  in  her  hind, 
given  her  yesterday  by  the  irony  of  chance.  Brian  had 
hinted  about  this  weapon  to  Bruce  last  night  in  the  con- 
versation we  reported,  but  he  did  not  know  who  held  it ; 
— and  that  was  a  pity,  fjr  Brian  was  a  man  of  as  many  re- 
sources as  Elsie,  and  he  could  use  them  in  more  delicate 
fashion,  when  need  be. 

Elsie,  as  she  watched  Jean  and  Venlaw,  shook  back  her 
locsc   dark   hair  with   an   impatient   gesture ;    her   teeth 


iiiii :» 


AT  BELTANE  FAIR. 


37 


caught  in  a  cruel  emphasis,  and  she  suddenly  turned  away. 
She  threaded  the  crowd  silently,  passing  out  of  the  fair- 
ground, and  making  towards  the  river-side,  where  she 
walked  up  and  down,  debating  with  herself  upon  a  ques- 
tion that  troubled  her  mind.  She  knew  of  Bruce's  hiding- 
place.  It  was  her  skirts  which  had  been  seen  on  the  mar- 
gin of  the  old  quarry.  She  had  the  Scotswoman's  sense  of 
compassion  for  the  hunted  ;  the  strain  of  Border  kindness 
was  as  strong  and  valiant  in  her  as  sanctuary  is  in  the 
veins  of  the  Corsican.  But  she  loved ;  and  to  some,  love, 
on  occasion,  is  madness.  She  had  the  hateful  faculty  for 
Jealousy — that  most  potent  criminal.  The  struggL'  went 
on  in  her  for  a  long  time ;  and  when  she  returned  to  the 
fair-ground  she  had  not  made  up  her  mind  ;  for  she  was 
not  so  sure — and  this  was  the  lowest  and  coarsest  of  her 
hesitations — that  Bruce's  capture  would  weigh  with  An- 
drew :  and  she  was  not  yet  so  malicious  that  she  could  do 
this  hard  thing  to  Jean  out  of  mere  hatred. 

To  the  fair-going  people  the  day  had  been  most  propi- 
tious ;  and  Bruce's  affairs  and  the  presence  of  his  sister  and 
father  had  given  a  spice  of  piquancy  to  the  general  event. 
Benoni,  ever  watchful,  worked  in  Bruce's  interest  by  drop- 
ping a  hint  here  and  there  that  the  lad  had  doubled  on  his 
hunters  and  escaped.  In  '^ourse  of  time  Black  Fordie  dis- 
appeared from  the  ground  to  go  to  some  part  of  the  Cowrie 
estate ;  from  which  he  did  not  expect  to  return  for  a  couple 
of  days  ;  but  Benoni  was  to  live  at  the  Castle,  so  that  the 
girl  would  not  be  entirely  alone.  In  early  afternoon,  Brian 
appeared.  He  was  in  high  spirits  ; — for  he  had  been  drink- 
ing a  little — dropping  a  word  of  humour  to  the  meanest, 
and  apparently  oblivious  that  he  v/as  eyed  askance  by  the 
staid  worthies  of  the  community,  regarded  coldly  by  the 


^i 


!|l 
J 


.'i 


'i'ii:  ^ 


11';' 


iiniU 


m 


38 


r/i^A'   CHIEF  FACTOR. 


few  gentry  who  still  watched  the  proceedings  good-nat-' 
uredly,  and  followed  -somewhat  suspiciously  by  officers  of 
the  law,  who  could  not  yet  credit  the  news  that  Bruce  had 
escaped,  while  they  were  certain  Brian  had  knowledge  of 
the  youth's  whereabouts. 

They  had  gone  too  far  afield.  Bruce  was  at  their  very 
doors.  The  hut  over  the  quarry  communicated  with  a 
hiding-place  used  by  fugitives  hundreds  of  years  before — 
the  underground  cell  of  an  old  monastery.  While  not  far 
from  this  again  was  the  traditional  subterranean  passage  to 
the  Castle,  necessary  in  past  days  when  there  was  more 
war  than  peace ;  and  a  not  uncommon  thing  in  modern 
times,  for  Prince  Joseph  Bonaparte  had  one  of  considerable 
length  at  his  place  of  exile  at  Bordentown,  New  Jersey. 

Presently  Brian  drew  near  Benoni,  and  after  a  few  cas- 
ual remarks,  said  almost  beneath  his  breath:  ''Well,  have 
you  seen  him?  " 

"Yes,"  was  the  quick  reply,  "you're  to  meet  him  at 
the  Salmon's  Head,  at  eight  o'clock;  and  he'll  arrange 
with  you  about  Bruce." 

"  Sure,  you've  the  root  of  the  matte;:  in  you,  Benoni," 
responded  Brian,  admiringly. 

"  I'd  think  more  of  you  if  you'd  fight  shyer  of  the 
liquor,  at  a  time  like  this,"  rejoined  the  old  man. 

Brian  snapped  his  fingers  lightly,  and  replied  :  "Bedad, 
I  don't  live  by  your  thinkin'  Benoni ;  but  you're  a  sound 
old  rascal,  and  we'll  not  quarrel."  , 

**  Can  you  manage  about  the  horses  ?  "  the  other  anxi- 
ously asked. 

"  I  can  that.  I've  got  him  relays  over  the  hills,  and 
once  he's  on  the  way  he  can  go  like  the  wind  to  Dunbar 
— if  that's  the  place  from  where  he  ships." 


AT  nEITANE  I' AIR. 


39 


Moore,  the  ofificer  of  the  Hudson  Bay  Company,  had  re- 
turned to  the  fair-ground,  and  when  he  saw  Brian  in  con- 
versation with  Benoni,  said  to  himself:  *'  That's  the  wild 
Irishman,  I  suppose.  He  has  the  look  of  a  man  ;  and  I've 
known  a  few  skirmishes  with  Indians  and  a  season  of  arc- 
tic frost  take  the  devilment  out  of  the  wildest.  We  could 
tame  even  him,  I  think.  He's  a  handsome  lad,  in  spite 
of  the  liquor  that's  in  him." 

An  hour  later  Beltane  was  at  its  apogee.  The  booths 
were  doing  an  immense  business,  dancing  was  going  on, 
and  through  the  sun  and  the  innocent  if  boisterous  mirth, 
the  Shiel  sang  its  slow  but  tuneful  song,  crooning  un- 
changingly through  the  enjoyment.  The  very  hill-sides 
above,  aglow  with  gorse  and  heather,  spread  with  a  carpet 
of  gold  and  purple,  seemed  alive  with  enjoyment. 

Groui:)S  were  presently  seen  moving  towards  Benoni. 
Some  one  had  at  last  persuaded  him  to  bring  forth  his  flute. 
He  stood  with  his  back  to  the  show,  a  clear  space  about 
him, — for  he  would  not  play  unless, — and  eager  callants 
were  clearing  a  still  larger  circle  for  a  dance  to  Benoni's 
flute,  always  the  choicest  feature  of  Beltane  .^air.  This 
accomplished,  each  set  about  getting  his  partner.  Venlaw 
stood  near  Jean.  Not  with  a  disposition  regarding  gaiety 
different  from  girls  of  her  age,  Jean  was,  also,  the  best 
dancer  in  the  Shiel  valley, — a  matter  to  be  understood  by 
any  that  once  saw  her.  She  was  all  natural  grace  and 
lightness.  To-day,  however,  if  she  danced,  it  would  be  be- 
cause she  had  promised  Benoni  to  do  the  same  as  she  had 
done  in  the  past :  besides,  her  father  wished  it  also.  As  to 
her  partner,  her  father,  before  leaving,  had  said  she  must 
dance  with  Andrew.  There  were  only  two  men  she  cared 
to  dance  with  at  all ;  one  clasping  her  would  give  her  joy ; 


''<  I 


!i 


; 
1 1 


;  n 


Hit  ll 


ti-:;;   -i 


40 


T//E   CHIEF  FACTOR. 


I,       'n 
III 


'il'!  il 


I!  ; 


1  M  i  I'll 


the  other, — well,  it  was  only  Andrew  Venlaw,  her  old 
friend,  and  it  was  different  from  dancing  with  any  respect- 
able lad  simply  because  he  asked  her.  If  Brian  only 
would  ask  her  !  She  did  not  let  herself  think  of  it ;  and 
yet  she  wanted  to  question  him  about  Bruce ;  that  seemed 
a  justification  for  her  wishing  it.  Andrew  was  little  of  a 
dancer,  but  he  wanted  to  dance  with  Jean  to-day  before 
them  all ;  firstly,  to  clinch  his  show  of  sympathy  and 
friendship  with  her ;  and  secondly,  to  feel  for  a  moment 
that  clasp  of  possession  which  he  would  have  given  worlds 
to  make  permanent.  But  this  last  thought  held  him  back 
for  a  moment.  He  blushed  at  it.  Yet  he  was  determined, 
though  he  hesitated  for  an  instant.  His  hesitation  was, 
perhaps,  the  cause  of  all  the  after  trouble.  At  the  very 
moment  that  he  turned  to  ask  Jean,  Brian  Kingley  ap- 
peared on  the  outside  of  the  little  throng  about  tifem.  He 
had  had  more  drink,  still  he  was  not  wholly  intoxicated. 
Obeying  a  sudden  overmastering  impulse,  impossible  to 
account  for,  save  by  an  underground  spirit  of  jealousy, 
which,  as  yet,  he  had  no  right  to  exercise,  he  pushed  in 
towards  the  two.  He  caught  Jean's  eye  just  as  she  gave 
her  hand  to  Andrew.  A  young  bonnet  laird,  standing  be- 
side Brian,  said  to  him  with  pointed  humour, — "There's 
metal  for  you,  man ;  take  her  away  from  the  gowk.  Look : 
her  eye  is  on  you." 

This  was  the  undefined  thought  in  Brian's  mind.  With- 
out a  word  he  strode  forward  quickly,  caught  the  hand 
lightly  away  from  Venlaw,  swung  Jean  gently  to  him, 
and  carried  her  off  in  the  trail  of  the  music,  which  had  in- 
stantly changed  with  this  action  to  a  swiiter  measure,  on  a 
weird  intonation.  Anyone  watching  Benoni  at  that  mo- 
ment would  have  seen  that  his  lips  twitched  over  the  in- 


iiil!,iill!l  I 


AT  BELTANE  FAIR. 


41 


strument  and  that  his  eyes'  gave  out  a  strange  red  Hght ; 
but  he  played  on.  r 

The  Hudson's  Bay  officer,  standing  not  far,  started,  and 
murmured  to  himself:  "There's  more  in  this  than  swells 
to  the  eye;  I'm  not  sure  yet  that  I've  lost  you,  master 
Venlaw." 

Venlaw  stood  for  a  moment  dazed  ;  but  his  hands 
clinched  when  he  saw  Brian's  mocking  face  turned  on  him 
as  the  two  whirled  by  him.  He  went  white,  then  red,  and 
took  a  step  forward.  Jean's  face  was  pale,  and  a  strange 
glow  ran  on  it.  She  was  very  grave,  her  nostrils  quivered 
slightly,  and  her  eyes  shone  dark.  Suddenly  Mr.  Moore, 
who  was  watching  her  face,  remarked  to  himself  the 
strange  likeness  there  was  at  this  moment  between  the  girl 
and  old  Benoni.  He  pronounced  it  droll,  but  certainly 
there  was  something  in  it. 

The  dancing  of  the  two  lasted  for  a  minute  or  so  only, 
but  while  it  was  on  Brian  whispered  swiftly  to  Jean  con- 
cerning her  brother,  and  then,  stopping  the  dance,  lightly 
let  her  go.  But,  as  if  on  second  thought,  and  with  a  mad 
impulse,  he  reached  out,  caught  her  in  his  arms,  and  kissed 
her  full  on  the  lips,  and  then  stepped  back.  Under  this 
action  the  girl  held  herself  together  firmly,  yet  in  a  most 
troubled  fashion  too.  Her  face  was  full  of  a  pained  sweet- 
ness, though  she  made  no  resistance  whatever.  But  when 
it  was  over  she  shuddered  slightly.  *  ^        . 

*'And  so,  faith,  Jean  Fordie,"  said  Brian,  aloud,  evi- 
dently referring  to  his  services  for  Bruce,  **  do  we  levy  on 
our  debtors  in  Ireland,  and  give  them  absolution  thereby  :  " 
and  he  lifted  his  hat  to  her,  looked  at  Venlaw  with  a  ma- 
licious playfulness,  and  was  about  to  turn  away,  amid  the 
astonished  exclamations  of  the  crowd. 


#' 


w 


.1  .i 


m 


i 


;lf 

III  ;.r 

',1     i       ; 

I'liH  V 

!    Ill 

"•'!;i'i; 


iiiiiiiiii  iii 


mm\ 


42 


77//?   CHIEF  FACTOR. 


But  Venlaw  stepped  forward  and  caught  him  by  the 
shoulder.  '*  You  coward  !  you  coward  !  "  he  said  in  low 
wrath,  "is  it  the  fashion  in  Ireland  to  insult  the  sister  as 
well  as  ruin  the  brother  ?  " 

Brian  had  swung  himself  away  from  the  savage  restraint 
of  the  hand,  and  stood  flushed,  but  yet  cool  enough,  a 
foot  or  two  away. 

Benoni,  his  eyes  steadily  regarding  the  group  fixedly, 
played  on  without  pp^se  but  shrilly  and  weirdly.  The 
Irishman  tossed  his  head  slightly,  and  retorted  :  *'  Vou're 
a  bit  free  with  your  hand,  young  Venlaw,  and  a  trifle  too 
glib  with  your  tongue.  Now,  I'll  tell  you  what  we  don't 
do  in  Ireland,  we  don't  answer  questions  to  every  raff  that 
asks  them,  nor  reckon  to  every  jealous  man,  when  we've 
proved  him  to  be  of  little  account.  .  .  .  And  so  good- 
day  to  you,  Venlaw  !  "  "  ' 

"  No,  sir  ;  but  it  is  not  good-day,"  said  Andrew^  step- 
l)ing  in  front  of  him.  *'  You  have  insultea  the  daughter 
of  my  friend,  and  the  sister  of  yours " 

'■'■  For  \vhich  I'll  answer  to  your  friend  and  my  friend, 
but  not  to  you,  my  lad,"  interrupted  Brian  coolly. 

"■  You'll  answer  to  me  first  for  a  coward's  trick  — 


j> 


*'  In  taking  Miss  Jean  Fordie  out  of  your  arms  !  But 
all's  fair  in — war  such  as  this,  my  shepherd  lad.  Besides, 
what  says  the  lady  herself  ?  Does  she  ask  you  to  stand  to 
her  cause  with  arms  all  twitching  so  ?  " 

Venlaw  turned  now,  amazed,  and  full  of  doubt  to  Jean, 
who  stood  looking  at  them  as  if  she  were  in  a  dream  ;  but 
she  said  nothing. 

''You  see,  you've  proved  yourself  but  a  meddling 
youngster,  after  all,  Venlaw,"  said  the  other  with  a  slight 
sneer, — "  a  meddler  and  a  fool." 


AT  BELTANE  FAIR, 


43 


)  fixedly, 
ly.  The 
"  Von 're 
trifle  too 
we  don't 
raff  that 
en  we've 
so  good- 

sw,  step- 
daughter 

y  friend, 


s!  But 
Besides, 
stand  to 


At  this,  Andrew,  white  to  the  lips,  and  maddened  by 
the  circumstance  and  by  the  remarks  of  some  bystanders, 
raised  his  arm  to  strike,  but  Jean  caught  it  with  a  cry  of 
pain.     **  No,  no!  for  God's  sake,  no!"   she  exclaimed. 

Venlaw  paused  as  if  himself  struck,  and  turned  and 
looked  her  straight  in  the  eyes.  Hers  did  not  droj) 
l)efore  his,  but  she  flushed  deeply.  After  an  instant  she 
cried:  **  Would  you  disgrace  me  by  fighting?  Cio,  both 
of  you,  go,  and  forget  it  all — all !  " 

Had  Brian  not  been  somewhat  in  liquor  it  is  hard  to 
tell  what  impulse  for  reparation  might  then  have  come  to 
him,  for  he  was  more  wild  than  wicked.  But  he  knew 
that  Venlaw  hated  him,  he  had  no  love  for  Venlaw,  and 
he  enjoyed  the  other's  discomfiture.  Besides,  in  his  ex- 
cited condition,  he  did  not  count  the  thing  as  serious, 
since  he  had  kissed  more  than  one  girl  publicly  in  his 
time,  though  never  one  quite  like  Jean  Fordie,  as  he  ack- 
nowledged afterwards  with  regret. 

He  raised  his  hat  now  and  said  :  '*  It  would  look  ill  to 
fight  before  a  lady,  but  if  you'll  meet  me  some  other  day, 
Venlaw— eh?" 

''When?     Where?"  repHed  the  other  viciously. 
^  Brian  at  that  moment  caught  Mr.  Moore's  eye,  and  wfth 
a  sudden   inspiration,    and    in   mocking   cadence,    said  : 
'<  Faith,  let  it  be  at  the  North  Pole  or  thereabouts.     You'll 
fight  better  where  it's  cool,  my  firebrand  !  " 

And  swinging  on  his  heel  he  strode  away.  The  music 
as  suddenly  stopped,  and  Benoni  thrust  his  flute  into  his 
pocket,  and  silently  fumbled  with  hi,>  show,  keeping  his 
eyes  steadied,  however,  on  Andrew  and  Jean.  With  the 
stopping  of  the  music  there  was  motion  and  much  talking. 
The  scene  suddenly  became  changed  ;  the  feeling  of  the  in- 


■vfl 


\. 


U 


*\ 


V     I 


f'   'I  111 


i    f 


I  1 

m 


44 


THE   CiriEF  FACTOR. 


w 


("idcnt  was  rendered  inclenient ;  to  Jean  unhearab  e.  She 
went  to  Henoni  and  said:  "I  am  going  to  tht  Castle. 
Yon  are  coming  to-night  ?  " 

He  did  not  speak.  He  nodded  assent  kintlly,  ana  looked 
at  her  earnestly,  encouragingly,  from  under  his  shaggy 
brows.  She  turned  away,  and  an  instant  after,  Benoni, 
still  watching  her,  was,  however,  laughing  and  joking  with 
the  crowd,  doing  his  best  to  disjjcl  the  scene  from  their 
minds.  Indeed,  on  second  thought,  ho  took  out  his  flute 
and  began  to  play,  and  soon  the  crowd  were  dancing  again 
with  all  their  might. 


I 


'■I  ' 


-^ 


>i!  :■::, 


!l 


CHAPTER  III. 


**FOR    LOCHAHKR    NO    MORE. 


M 


Andrew  had  started  to  follow  Jean,  but  he  suddenly 
turned  away,  elbowed  himself  through  the  crowd,  moved 
across  the  green  and  up  High  Street  towards  Dominie  Dry- 
hope's  cottage.  Someone  followed  him.  Presently,  as  he 
wheeled  into  a  side  street,  that  someone  came  closer  to  him. 
It  was  Elsie  Garvan.  She  had  seen,  with  a  harsh  delight, 
the  incident  on  the  fair-ground.  The  game  seemed  to 
have  been  given  over  into  her  hands.  What  now  came  to 
her  mind  shocked  her  at  first,  it  was  so  cruel,  so  untrue ; 
but  she  had  not  been  brought  up  under  a  mother's  care, 
and  she  was  tolerably  bitter  against  life  all  round.  She 
had  an  idiot  brother,  Pete,  whom  she  had  to  care  for  and 
support  alone;  she  had  no  other  relatives.  If  love  had 
been  given  her  happily  it  might  have  transformed  her.  It 
was  given  her  unhappily,  and  she  became  capable  of  a 
wicked  tiling.  Her  nature  was  headstrong ;  her  heart  was 
a  place  of  conflicting,  almost  aboriginal,  passions.  All  that 
she  saw  now  was  an  opportunity  to  visit  punishment  on  her 
rival.  If  it  succeeded,  as  she  intended,  it  meant  that 
Andrew  should  be  estranged  from  Je.  n,  and  might,  there- 
fore, turn  to  her  who  had  loved  him  ever  since  he  had 
fished  her,  nearly  drowned,  out  of  the  Shiel,  when  they 
were  children. 

She  knew  that  Bruce  Fordie  would  try  to  go  to  the  Castle 


f'l 


{ i 


I 


: 


■niilii' 


III'' 


ir::i!|i 

11' 


4|C  r//E   ClffEF  FACTOR. 

this  night  by  the  subterranean  passage.  She  knew  that 
Brian  also  would  go  there,  and  that  lilack  Fordie  would  l)e 
absent.  The  first  two  of  these  facts  she  had  learned — 
(really  b)f  accident,  for,  i)assing  the  old  (juarry,  she  had 
caugh't  a  glimixse  of  Brian  and  Benoni,  and  followed  them 
more  out  of  curiosity  than  anything  else) — from  Brian, 
IJenoni,  and  Bruce  themselves;  the  last  she  had  heard 
Jean's  father  declare  on  the  fair-ground.  As  may  In?  seen, 
the  opportunity  might  have  Ijeen  grasped  by  a  mind  less 
a(uite  than  Elsie's.  -\     • 

Before  Andrew  reached  the  Dominie's  cottage  she  hur- 
ried on  to  him,  and  touched  his  arm.  '*  Andrew  Venlaw," 
she  said,  "  I  hae  a  word  for  ye."  - 

He  turned  abruptly  to  her,  his  face  angry  and  hard. 

<'  We  used  to  be  frien's,  Andrew,"  she  continued,  **  and 
are  yet,  I'm  thinkin'.  And  because  we  were  and  are,  I'd 
tell  ye,  as  a  frien',  o'  a  thing  that  concerns  ye."  She 
paused. 

"  (}o  on,  Elsie,"  he  said,  not  very  heartily. 

*'  Promise  me,  that  whatever  I  say  ye' 11  no  be  fierce  wi* 
me." 

**  No  man  is  fierce  wi'  a  woman,"  he  replied  gravely. 

''I  ken,"  she  continued,  *',and  a'  Braithen  kens  what 
you  hae  thocht  o'  Jean  Fordie  this  lang  time.  And  a  man 
hae  a  richt  tae  think  o'  what  woman  he  wills " 

*'  What's- tliis  to  you,  FZlsie?"  he  quickly  interrupted; 
*♦  or  to  ony  i'  Braithen  ?  " 

**  It's  naething  to  me,"  she  retorted  with  sudden  anger  ; 
*'  but  I'm  yer  frien',  and  hae  been  lang  syne.  And  this 
I'll  tell  you  " — here  she  set  the  whole  desperate  game 
upon  one  throw — "  that  ye  saw  ae  thing  the  day,  and  I'll 
show  ye  anither  the  nicht,  if  ye  hae  a  mind " 


iiii  ■ 


FOR  LOCH  A  HER  NO  AfONE,'* 


47 


"  What  do  you  mean,  Klsie  (larvaii,  by  *  J  saw  iic  //////{,• 
//w  i/ity,  and  ye'  II  show  me  a  nit  her  the  nicht  f  '  In  (iod's 
name,  speak  !  " 

She  spoke  with  slow,  cold  empliasis,  as  though  lier  lieart 
had  suddenly  congealed,  and  she  was  now  merely  the  piti- 
less surgeon  to  his  misfortune.  ♦'  He  kissed  her  on  the 
lips,  and  she  made  nae  shame  o't,  but  when  ye'd  hae  him 
fccht  caught  yer  airm  lest  ye  should  strike  him — you  are 
tlie  heavier  man.  D'ye  think  she  wad  hae  caught  his  arm 
waur  he  gau'en  to  strike  you?  " 

Venlaw's  face  was  not  i)leasant  to  see.  A  hundred  lit- 
tle things  flashed  through  his  mind — little  unsubstantial 
things;  trifles  fast  becoming  confirmation  strong  as  Moly 
^\'^it.     He  spoke  no  word,  but  nodded  savagely. 

She  went  on.  *' VV^ell,  d'ye  think  ony  girl  would  let 
that  kind  o'  thing  on  the  opt"  fair-ground,  frae  sic  a  man 
— frae  a  gentleman,  and  we  ken  what  kind  o'  a  gentle- 
man— if — if  he  hadna  don't  afore,  whaur  it  wasna  sae 
ojjen,  whiles " 

She  pau.,-d  again.  She  had  the  native  instinct  of  the 
artist  in  cruelty,  of  the  surgeon  who  loved  the  work  for  its 
own  sake. 

"  Go  on,"  he  said,  huskily.  >• 

She  cpntinued :  **0f  course  Bruce  Fordie  was  his 
frien'  ;  and,  of  course,  that  was  his  way  to  ken  Jean  bet- 
ter. And  noo  that  her  brither  is  disgraced,  and  her 
faither  no  there,  he  shames  her  afore  them  a'  ;  for  that  de'il 
is  in  him  that  looks  upon  a  woman's  heart  as  a  matter  for 
idle  days."  '     • 

He  spoke  now  with  a  strange,  hard  calmness:  '^  Elsie, 
you  hae  a  bitter  and  a  dreadful  tongue — you  said  ^  the 
nicht ; '  that  there  was  something  concerning  the  nicht !  " 


%\ 


i^i 


i 


it 

I 


."'I'iii'i'l! 


M    Ml 


'      ;■'       ,  ii 


lii:;."! 


/:         1 


49 


r//£  CiriE^  FACTOR, 


**  Yol!  always  were  impatient,  Andrew,"  she  responded, 
with  a  voice  tuned  to  a  pretended  compassion,  '*  and  stub- 
born, too,  else  yi'd  hae  seen  what  ithers  saw,  and " 

His  face  was  very  pale.  **  If  you  don't  stop  torturing 
me,  and  tell  ine  what  you  mean  by  W/ie  m'c/if,^  there'll 
be  some  words  that  ye' 11  no  care  to  hfar,  nor  I  to  speak." 

She  saw  that  she  had  gone  as  far  as  she  dared.  **  Well, 
then,"  she  said,  "  meet  me  the  nicht  in  the  last  clump  o' 
yews  afore  ye  come  to  the  Castle  yett,  and  I'll  show  ye 
what  I  mean." 

"  No,  but  you  shall  teil  me  noo,"  he  sternly  urged,  as 
she  made  now  to  leave  him  ;  "for  I  ken  there  are  mair 
evil  things  hanging  on  your  tongue.  So,  say  them  and 
ha'e  done  wi't !  "  .. 

**  'Deed,  then,  I'll  no  be  Snllied  into  sayin't,'*  she  re- 
torted, **  until  it  please  me,  Andrew  Venlaw.  But  I  tell 
ye,  that  iP  you  meet  me  the  nicht,  ye  shall  see  the  mean- 
ing o'  what  hapi)ened  the  day.  Jean  will  be  alane  at  the 
Castle  for  hours.  Durii/  that  time  someane  '11  cam  to 
her-  Andrew,  lad,  I  hae  sorrow  eneuch  for  you,  but  you 
maunna  tak'  it  tae  heart,  for  there's  them  in  the  warl' 
that's  true,  for  a'  there's  them  that's  fause." 

**Whydo  you  talk,"  he  responded,  with  a  despairing 
bitterness,  **as  if  Jean  Fordie  were  breakin'  faith  wi'  me? 
She  hasna  promisecl  to  me  ;  she's  free  to  wha  she  wills." 

"Ay,  Andrew,  and  she  wills  freely,"  said  the  other, 
with  a  cynical  laugh. 

"If  you  were  a  man,"  he  rejoined,  grimly,  "I'd  hae 
choked  thnt  lauch  back  in  yer  throat.     But  ye'ie  a  woman, 
Elsie  Garvan,  and  you  were  a  frien'  o'  mine,  and  I  dinna 
doubt  ye  mean  nae  harm." 
.    "I  mean  to  be  your  frien',  and  I  speak  to  you  as  ane. 


FOR  LOCHABER  NO  MORE/' 


49. 


ou  as  ane, 


Andrew;  for  little  do  we,  who  think  weel  o'  you,  like  to 
see  ye  throw  yer  heart  awa  whaur  it  isna  deserved." 

*'  Maybe  that  speech  would  come  fitter  fra  a  man,"  he 
remarked  with  irony.  • 

'*  Ay,  if  ony  man  kenned  what  I  ken,"  was  the  smooth 
reply.     **  Is  it  your  will  to  meet  me  or  no?  " 

'•  I'll  meet  you,"  he  replied,  **  at  the  time  you  say." 

He  was  about  to  turn  abruptly  from  her,  but  paused,  held 
out  his  hand,  and  said  :  **  I  ken  you've  meant  to  be  a  frien' 
to  me,  Elsie,  but  it's  bitter  kindness  you  serve  me." 

'*  Better  that  you  should  have  it  frae  a  frien'  than  an 
enemy,  Andrew,"  she  replied  in  a  low  insinuating  voice, 
her  big  hot  eyes  swimming  with  his. 

He  left  her,  and  instead  of  going  to  the  Dominie's  place 
wheeled,  and  went  to  his  own  lonely  cottage. 

She  sauntered  slowly  o'er  the  brae  towards  her  cottage 
and  her  idiot  brother,  and,  as  she  crossed  the  threshold,  a 
shudder  went  through  her,  for  she  felt  for  the  first  time  how 
different  even  the  meanest;  most  wretched  home  appears, 
when  one  has  done  a  wicked  thing.  It  rises  up — all  its  as- 
sociations rise  up — as  if  in  piteous  shame,  to  wave  us  back. 
When  that  feeling  ceases  wholly  in  the  heart,  and  the  home 
can  be  entered  without  remorseful  diffidence  by  the  erring, 
that  man  or  woman  is  lost.  Elsie  had  had  little  brightness 
in  the  world,  yet  this  idiot  boy,  IoIURj,  on  the  hearthstone 
l)eside  the  old  crone  who  cared  for  him  when  his  sister  was 
absent,  she  had  loved  in  a  hungering  sort  of  fashion.  She 
had  talked  to  hifn  as  to  a  faithfiil  animal,  getting  no  sane 
reply, — only  a  sympathy,  not  higher  than  Caliban's,  not 
lower  than  that  of  a  hound.  She  sat  down  beside  him  now. 
He  caught  at  her  hand  and  rubbed  his  fat  burning  cneek 
against  it,  and  said :   '*  O  little  she — O  puir  Pete — her  eyes 


i    % 


■'I    ■  ! 


i.  !■ 


1 
I  i 

iljllll 

i 
1, 


!!i^ 


liii 

Mi ; 


!ii!'ii,;i!  ! 


m\ 


jV:    ■:  '     i! 


1   I      ': 


I'       I 


illl 


50 


T///^   CHIEF  FACTOR. 


a'  fire — O,  O,  piiir  Else,  piiir  Else — rat  in  a  hole  the  day 
— Pete  ride  a  white  horse — O,  Else — puir  Pete's  pretty  fule 
— O,  O,  amen — flee  awa'  to  God !  " 

She  shivered  cavight  the  idiot's  head  to  her  knee. 
*'Hush.  hush,  Pete!"  she  whispered.  Then,  after  a 
moment:   *' Ay,  we  are  baith  fules,  ]*ete." 

At  eight  o'clock,  as  arranged,  Brian  was  sitting  in  the 
Salmon's  Head  waiting  for  Moore  to  come.  He  was  in 
no  buoyant  mood  now.  "A  beggaily  trick  it  was,"  he 
said  aloud.  "The  devil  was  in  me.  But  when  I  saw 
him  with  his  Scotch  conceit,  as  sure  of  her  as  if  they  were 
hand  in  glove  at  the  altar,  I  couldn't  resist  it.  Bedad, 
though,  I  wish  it  had  been  any  other  than  Bruce's  sister. 
Still,  'twas  only  a  kiss  after  all ;  and  I'll  make  it  up  to  him 
one  way  or  another.  But  how  ?  By  words  as  easy  to  the 
Irish  tongue  as  wind  to  the  hills?  Anyhow,  I'm  doing 
him  a  good  turn  with  the  last  of  my  money,  and  I'll  get 
him  away  if  I  can.  Well,  well,  but  I'm  a  bit  of  a  scamp  ! 
— and  what's  to  become  of  me  is  a  riddle  for  heaven  to 
solve."  He  dropped  into  silence;  then,  after  a  moment, 
he  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  marching  up  and  down  the 
room,  said  excitedly:  ''I'll  do  it,  as  it  flashed  into  my 
mind  on  the  fair-ground ;  I'll  go  to  the  North  Pole,  or 
wherever  that  Hudson's  Bay  country  is,  and  live  with  the 
bears  or  die  fighting  the  Indians,  and  there  you  are,  Brian 
Kingley,  gentleman  !  " 

"  I  don't  see  the  necessity  for  either,"  coolly  said  a 
voice  behind  him.  _ 

Brian  turned  and  saw  Mr.  Moore. 

'*  As  I  said,  I  don't  see  the  need  for  either.  Come  to 
the  Hudson's  Bay  country,  then,  by  all  means ;  for  thougli 


m" 


iiiiir'^ 


FOR  LOCHABKR  NO   AfORE/' 


51 


you've  been  a  bit  rash  with  your  own  money,  there's  no 
reason  why  you  should  be  so  with  other  jDeople's ;  and 
though  yop.'re  something  hasty  with  the  lasses,  age  and 
fighting  and  the  H.  B.  C.  will  mend  that.  And  if  you'll 
give  your  word  and  come,  I'll  take  the  risk  with  you, 
though  it's  no  light  matter." 

''  Faith,  you're  mighty  kind,  and  something  forward 
and  lofty,  too,"  responded  Brian  with  dignity,  but  not 
without  humour.  **  A  man  may  lift  a  tumbler,  and  kiss  a 
lass,  and  squander  a  fortune,  but  he  may  know  without 
telling,  and  keep  without  assurance,  the  fashion  and  char- 
acter of  a  gentleman."  He  drummed  his  fingers  lightly 
on  the  table  before  him,  and  looked  the  other  steadily  in 
the  eyes. 

**  Why,  now,"  replied  Moore,  **I  beg  your  pardon. 
Maybe  it'd  be  impertinent  for  me  to  say  that  I  like  you 
better  for  that  speech,  but  I  do.  And  because  I'm  as  well 
born  as  yourself,  and  have  squandered  money  and  had  my 
wild  days  with  the  lassies, — move  wild  than  bad,  I  hope — 
though  you  see  my  hair  is  wintry  now  at  the  temples,  here 
is  my  hand  if  you'll  take  it,  and,  in  the  name  of  the 
H.  B.  C,  I  offer  you  a  place  also." 

They  shook  hands.  Brian  motioned  the  other  to  a  chair, 
and  they  sat  down.     Mr.  Moore  continued  : 

"  I  know  you  want  help  for  a  friend  of  yours  and  Be- 
noni,  who'd  be  well  out  of  this  tight  Httle  island;  and 
though  it's  a  risk  I  shouldn't  care  to  take  every  day,  still 
I'm  ready  for  it.  For,  Benoni  did  me  a  good  turn,  and  I 
fancy  favour  for  favour." 

Explanations  then  ensued,  and  arrangements  were  com- 
pleted, by  which  Bruce,  if  possible,  should  join  Mr. 
Moore  at   Dunbar,  whence  a  vessel   sailed  to  London, 


^  \i 


1    t 


'1 


-    52 


THE   CIltEr  FACTOR. 


m\ 


lU 


ii: 


there  to  board  one  of  two  vessels  intended  to  proceed  to 
Hudson's  Bay  within  a  few  weeks  of  each  other. 

As  they  sat  there  Benoni  entered  (luictly.  He  was 
greeted  warmly  by  both  men,  but  he  answered  them  in 
subdued  fashion.  The  shrewd  humour  seemed  to  have 
fled  suddenly  from  his  tongue.  He  looked  kindly  enough 
at  Mr.  Moore,  however,  and  at  once  entered  into  the  ques- 
tion of  Bruce's  escape  and  his  subsequent  destination.  At 
last  he  turned  to  Brian  and  said:  ''You  did  a  hateful 
trick  to-day,  Mr.  Kingley, — one  that  should  cause  you 
sorrow  to  your  grave. ' ' 

**  Faith,   sorry  enough  I  am  at  this  minute,   Benoni, 

but "    here   he  reached  over  to   take  the  old  man's 

arm  in  good-nature  ;  at  which  the  other  drew  back — **  but 
it  was  only  a  mad  and  idle  prank." 

"  'Tis  mad  and  idle  pranks  that  ruin  the  world.  You 
were  born  a  gentleman,  sir ;  you  should  have  remained 
one,  and  done  better  by  the  sister  of  your  friend." 

Brian  kept  down  his  temper,  though  he  thought  Benoni 
was  taking  the  matter  far  too  seriously.  "I  should  have 
been  anything  but  Brian  Kingley  to-day,"  he  rejoined 
with  a  laugh.  **  Sure,  though,  you're  something  of  an 
old  meddler,  Benoni.  You  have  too  fatherly  a  care  of  the 
ladies.  I  doubt  not  but  when  you  were  young  yourself 
you  cast  an  arm  about  a  lass  like  Jean  Fordie,  and " 

**  Like  Jean  Fordie,"  and  a  singular  light  came  into  the 
showman's  eyes  as  he  caught  his  cloak  and  threw  it  a  little 
grandly  over  his  shoulders,  drawing  himself  up  at  the  same 
time, — "as  like  her  as  you  like  your  shadow,  man  ;  but 
the  twist  of  my  arm  was  honest,  and  her  honour  was  my 
honour."  Here'he  came  close  to  Brian.  '*  If  a  man  did 
that  to  her  that  you  did  to  Jean  Fordie  to-day,  and  I'd 


FOR  LOCnABER  NO  MORE.'' 


53 


cared  for  her  as  Venlavv  does  for  the  lass,  the  deed  would 
be  paid  for  in  good  round  coin,  young  gentleman." 

Brian  was  a  little  irritated  now.  He  thought  too  much 
was  being  made  of  the  occurrence.  "  Well,  then,  this 
shall  be  paid  for  in  good  round  coin,  Signor  Benoni,  chief 
of  go-l)etweens  !  " 

**  More  than  you  think  for — much  more.  You  are  not 
dead  yet.     I've  lived  long  and  travelled  far " 


(< 


From  the  figs  and  pipes  of  Palermo  to  the  flags  and 
flutes  of  Braithen,"  interposed  the  other  nonchalantly,  and 
with  an  attempt  at  wit. 

•' — And  travelled  far,  as  I  said,  and  I  never  saw  a  man 
who  did  an  idle  or  ill  turn  to  a  woman  who  didn't  face  it 
again,  a  thousand  times,  to  his  confusion." 

**  Faith,  it's  very  fine  English  you  use,  for  a  poor  Italian, 
the  keeper  of  a  raree  show."  And  now  the  Irishman  said 
what  he  did  not  mean,  because,  in  his  dare-devil  spirit, 
he  saw  a  fighting  light  in  Benoni's  eye.  **  But  women? 
I'm  thinking  you  set  them  a  ladder  too  high  ;  and  for 
such  a  young  hill-bird  as  Jean  Fordie,  with  a  lilt  to  her 
eye  and  a  toss  to  her  skirts ' '     • 

He  got  no  further,  for  the  showman  sprang  forward  and 
caught  him  by  the  throat  with  his  strenuous,  delicate 
hands,  and  shook  him  savagely.  Then  suddenly  letting 
him  go,  he  fell  back  to  the  wall  glowering,  in  an  attitude 
of  defence,  fury  still  in  his  fingers. 

Brian  was  so  taken  aback  that  he  had  scarcely  raised  his 
arms  in  attempt  to  snatch  the  assaulting  hands  away,  and 
now  he  stood  looking  with  more  surprise  than  anger  at  Be- 
noni.  He  put  his  hand  to  his  throat,  and  then  stretched 
up  his  neck. 

**  Indeed,"  said  he,  "  you're  the  first  that  ever  had  his 


I'l- 


r 


! 


ill 


I' 


54 


T//E   CHIEF  FACTOR. 


hands  there,  my  man  ;  and  an  hour  ago,  I'd  have  said  he 
that  did  it  should  toss  in  a  nasty  cradle."  Then,  with  a 
sudden  rush  of  rage, — **  and  by  Heaven " 

Here  Mr.  Moore  interposed:  "No,  no,  Mr.  Kingley, 
the  man's  old,  and  you  were  foolish  in  what  you  said. 
You  spoke  slightly  of  women,  and  he's  done  no  more  than 
many  would  have  done  ;  though  I'll  admit,  and  I  hope  he 
will,  that  he  provoked  you  uncommonly." 

"But  what,  in  the  name  of  St.  Patrick,  are  a// women 
to  him  ?  and  wherein  does  Jean  Fordie  concern  him  so 
closely?"  cried  Brian,  still  chafing. 

The  old  man  came  forward.  "  I  had  no  right  to  catch 
you  by  the  throat,  Brian  Kingley,"  he  said.  "  I  only  re- 
membered that  I  had  eaten  at  Black  Fordie's  table,  and 
been  cared  for  by  his  daughter  when  I  had  a  sickness 
and ' ' 

"  And  here's  my  hand,  Benoni,  if  you'll  take  it.  For  I 
was  all  wrong  and  you  were  all  right.  And  I  swear  to  you 
that  I  meant  no  harm  in  what  I  said  nor  in  what  I  did  to- 
day. For  Bruce  Fordie  is  my  friend,  as  you  know  so 
well,  and  I'm  a  rapscallion  that  needs " 

"  That  needs  to  tread  the  neck  of  the  world,  to  rule  the 
north,  for  the  brave  com[)any  of  Adventurers  trading  in 
Hudson's  feay,"  said  Mr.  Moore,  completing  the  sen- 
tence. 

Then  with  a  manly  apology  Brian  shook  hands  with 
Benoni,  and  they  proceeded  with  their  conference  con- 
cerning Bruce.  - 


.piiMliii 

■i:  Ihl'l'.'ili  illli 

I  ; 


Braithcii  was  making  merry  by  night  as  it  had  been  gay 
by  day.  At  the  Rob  Roy  Inn  jocund  feet  were  responding 
to  the  scrape  of  an  indifferent  fiddle  in  one  room,  to  the 


FOR  l.OCrrABER  NO  MORE." 


m 


pipes  in  another,  and  to  Benoni's  flute  in  a  third.  In 
Cowrie  Castle  one  window  was  alight.  We  have  seen  both 
the  light  and  the  window  before.  Within  the  sombre  but 
comfortable  room  Jean  sits  in  the  corner  weaving.  She 
had  tried  to  read,  but  she  could  not  fix  her  mind  upon  the 
words.  She  went  to  the  window  and  looked  out  many 
times  until  it  grew  altogether  dusk,  then  she  dropped  the 
blind  and  lit  the  candles.  The  fact  that  she  dropped  the 
blind  was  unusual.  But  Brian  had  whi.spered  in  her  ear 
that  day  the  possibility  of  Bruce  coming,  and  there  must  be 
no  exposed  windows.  Brian  had  said  also  that  he  was 
coming  to  see  Bruce,  but  at  this  moment  she  had  no  pleas- 
ure in  that.  It  gave  her,  rather,  infinite  pain.  She  could 
hear  even  more  plainly  with  her  weaving  than  without,  as 
those  may  know  who  have  lived  by  the  monotonous  wash 
of  a  sea,  or  near  the  low  rumble  of  machinery.  Extraneous 
sounds  pierced  the  rhythmical  vibrations  of  the  loom  with 
a  singular  distinctness.  At  last,  to  the  swaying  of  the  weft 
before  her,  she  sang  an  old  song  softly  to  herself,  the  sounds 
echoing  softly  and  plaintively  through  the  room  :  — 

**  It  wasna  that  ye  loe'cl  me,  O  my  dearie, — 

Your  een  lojkit  never  sae  tae  me  ; 
.     But  I  loe  ye  an'  my  heart's  aye  weary, 
Syne  the  hour  that  ye  gang  frae  me — 

O  my  dearie,  come  back  tae  me  !  " 

She  sang  two  or  three  verses,  then  she  threw  her  head  for- 
ward on  her  arms.  **0h!  oh!"  she  murmured,  **why 
did  he  do't?     Why  did   he   do't?     There'll   be   trouble 

come  frae't. ^ow  I  wish  I  could  hate  him !  " 

Presently  she  started  up,  as  though  she  heard  a  sound.  She 
ran  to  the  door,  opened  it  and  listened.     '''  ere  was  noth- 


/! 


,h  r\\ 


\ 


n 


\    %    ■ 


%\ 


\     ".i 


H 


lil'iilil' 


i! ! 


^W 


1 


56 


rr/E  cirrEF  factor. 


ing.  She  went  back  and  sat  down.  It  was  eleven  o'clock. 
Not  long  after  she  heard  a  pebble  rattle  on  the  window*, 
then  a  knocking,  not  loud.  She  took  up  the  candle  and 
hurried  down-stairs.  She  asked  who  was  there.  Brian 
answered.  For  an  instant  she  hesitated,  then  oj^ened  the 
door.     Brian  stepped  inside.        "  ■* 

"  Is  he  here  yet  ?  "  he  asked. 

**  You  mean  Bruce  y  she  said  breathlessly. 

**  Yes.  I  tried  to  make  you  understand  when  we  were 
dancing.  You  know  of  the  old  subterranean  passage  from 
the  quarry  to  the  Jastie  ?  " 

'*  ''^es,  yes  :  Bruce  and  I  explored  a  part  of  it  when  we 
were  children."  ' 

"Well,  we  knew  it  wasn't  safe  for  Bruce  to  stay  any 
longer  where  he  was.  So  he  determined  to  try  the  passage. 
It  comes  out  i  •  the  dungeons  somewhere." 

'*  Oh,"  she  rejoined,  "  how  '3ng  ago  did  he  start?  " 

**  It  must  have  been  three  hours  or  more." 

**  When  we  explored  it  years  ago  there  were  pools,  the 
air  was  bad,  and  .some  of  the  wall  was  falling.  Oh,  let  us 
go  below  at  once.     Hark  I  did  you  not  hear  something  ?  " 

They  both  listened  attentively,  and  presently  they  heard 
the  sound  again  as  of  a  dull  scraping  or  knocking.  They 
went  quickly  below  to  the  dungeons  without  a  word. 
They  traced  the  sound  to  a  corner  which  Jean  knew  well. 
With  Brian's  help  she  removed  a  stone  in  the  wall,  making 
a  hole  large  enough  for  a  min's  body  to  pass.  But  beyond, 
the  earth  and  rock  had  caved  in. 

''Quick,  a  spade  or  axe,"  said  Brian,  for  a  noise  was 
coming  from  behind  the  pile  of  debris. 


Jean   darted   away. 
Bruce?" 


Brian  called:    "Are   you    there, 


«, 


FOR  I.OCIIABKR  XO  MORE:' 


» 


)f  it  when  we 


a  noise  was 


The  reply  came  faintly,  "Yes,  yes;  for  God's  sake, 
(liiick!     I'm  stifled!" 

Brian  laboured  at  the  earth  and  stones  with  his  hands. 
Presently  Jean  arrived  with  a  pick,  and  an  opening  was 
achieved.  Bruce's  form  appeared.  He  was  almost  through 
when  he  plunged  forward  insensible.  They  pulled  him 
out,  and,  as  he  did  not  revive  at  once,  they  carried  him  up 
to  the  living-room.  Here  he  recovered  and  rose  to  his 
feet.  For  a  moment  he  could  not  quite  tell  where  he  was, 
but  when  he  did  he  embraced  Jean  and  kissed  her.  She 
dropt  her  head  on  his  shoulder  and  burst  into  tears.  They 
were  j^laced  betv/e^n  the  lamp  and  the  window  in  such  a 
fashion  that  their  shadows  were  thrown  upon  the  blind.  A 
man  and  woman,  standing  outside  in  the  yews,  saw  this, 
and  the  woman  said:  "This  is  what  v.e've  come  for, 
Andrew  Venlaw.  You  saw  Brian  Kingley  enter;  you 
see  that — though  it's  H*-':le  thanks  I'll  get  for  showin'  it 
you:  " 

The  man  caught  his  breath  with  a  great  sob,  then  he 
put  out  his  hand  towards  the  woman.  "  Hush  !  In  the 
name  of  God  let  me  be  !  "  Then,  with  a  cutting  breath, 
"  The  villain  !  the  villain  !     I'll  have  his  life." 

"You'll  hae  his  life,  Andrew?  And  what  right  hae 
you  to  tak'  his  life  ?  She's  got  her  father  and  brither, 
and  she  wasna  vowed  to  you.  You'll  do  nae  hurt  to  the 
man,  for  that  wad  mak'  matters  waur  for  her."  (Elsie  at 
this  moment  shrank  from  the  consequences  of  her  deceit.) 
"Confess  yersel'  a  fule,  Andrew;  and  be  thankfu'  ye've 
esca^Ded ;  for  the  tricks  o'  beauty  like  hers  arena  for  men 
like  you." 

His  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  window,  but  he  stretched 
out  his  arm  again  impatiently.     *' Will  ye  na  cease?     Are 


H 


^    if/' 


!   ':?ll 


.    f 


.  .'1 


u 


i  s 


4i 


'Iliuill;  I 


lll'i 


Piili 


I  r 


111 


iii 


li''     -u 


S8 


r///':  cniEF  factor. 


you  a  decvil  ?  "  Then,  relenting,  **  Forgie  me,  lass  ;*it 
has  made  me  wild — but  gang  hamc,  gang  hame,  Klsie  !  " 

The  beginning  of  Elsie's  [)unishment  had  l)egun.  She 
had  to  watch  the  n^.an  grieving  for  this  girl,  rather  than 
hating  her. 

**  I'll  no  gang  hame  wi'out  you,"  she  answered.  "  For 
ye' 11  stay  here  till  he  comes  oot,  and  there'll  be  fechtin'. 
Get  you  hame  and  sleep  on't,  Andrew,  and  in  the  morn- 
ing ye' 11  say  as  I  do,  that  it's  weel  to  let  the  thing 
bide."  . 

He  stood  for  a  moment  very  still,  then,  without  a  word, 
he  turned  and  went  through  the  trees  towards  the  town, 
she  accompanying  him.  They  did  not  speak  until  they 
had  neared  the  still  peoi)led  streets  ;  then  she  said  to  him  : 
"  We'll  part  here,  Andrew,  for  it's  no  weel  that  we  should 
be  seen  thegither  at  this  hour — howe'er  careless  ithers  may 
be." 

The  innuendo  was  plain,  but  he  appeared  not  to  notice 
it.  He  turned  and  grasped  her  hand.  '*  I  believe,  Elsie, 
that  ye've  tried  to  be  a  frien'  to  me,  in  this ;  and  I'll  hope 
never  to  forget  it,  though  you  could  ha'e  done  mony  a 
service  that'd  please  me  better.  I'll  remember  you  l)e- 
yond,  lass.     Good-bye  !  " 

And  he  turned  abruptly  and  left  her. 

She  stood  still  looking  after  him.  ***  Beyond — be- 
yond !  '  "  she  repeated  ;  **  '  I'll  remember  you  beyond ;  ' 
thae  were  his  words.     Is  he  going — awa'  ?  " 

She  darted  forward  as  if  to  speak  to  him,  but  he  was 
out  of  sight. 

**Then — then,"  she  said,  in  a  low,  bitter  tone,  "he 
shall  have  one  more  blow:  "  and  hurrying,  as  if  deter- 
mined to  give  herself  no  time  to  change  her  mind,  she 


FOR  LOCirMU'.R  XO   A/OA'/%" 


59 


but  he  was 


went  to  the  Rob  Roy  Inn.  She  entered  the  room  where 
lienoni  was  playing  for  the  dancers.  'I'here  were  several 
soldiers  present,  and  also  two  or  three  officers  of  the  law. 
She  went  to  one  of  the  soldiers  whom  she  knew,  and  whis- 
l)ered  to  him. 

'*  I  thought  the  scamp  hadn't  gone,"  he  replied.  "  The 
subterranean  i)assage  is  a  good  dodge,  but  we'll  ham-string 
him  directly."  So  saying,  he  nodded  to  Elsie,  and  went 
to  one  of  the  law-officers  present. 

Meanwhile,  in  the  Castle,  Bruce  had  explained  his  plans 
of  escape  to  Jean.  He  did  not  know  yet  that  he  was  to 
have  company  to  the  Hudson's  Bay  country.  Brian  in- 
tended that  as  a  surprise  for  him  later.  They  discussed 
the  i)robability  of  the  Castle  being  searched  again,  for  they 
knew  that  it  was  watched.  For  this  Bruce  had  a  plan 
ready  ;  and  if  he  had  immunity  from  capture  for  a  few 
days,  vigilance  would  be  relaxed,  and  then  he  could  make 
liis  escai)e  more  easily  to  the  coast — that  is,  to  Dunbar. 
His  scheme  of  hiding  under  the  very  nose  of  the  law,  had, 
so  far,  been  daring,  but,  perhaps  the  best  that  could  have 
been  adopted.  The  i)olicy  should  be  j)ursued  to  the  bitter 
or  successful,  end. 

Jean  had  spoken  little  during  the  discussion.  She  did 
not  avoid  Brian,  but  she  could  not  be  to  him  as  she  had 
been  before,  though  she  tried  to  i)revent  Bruce  seeing  any 
difference  in  her  manner.  As  for  Brian,  he  wished  to 
humble  himself  before  her,  and  would  have  done  so  at  a 
certain  moment,  when  Bruce's  affairs  were  arranged  in  so 
far  as  was  possible.  But  she  guessed  his  intention,  and 
warned  him  with  her  eyes  ;  and  the  pleading,  suffering, 
and  absolute  womanliness  of  that  look,  followed  him  for 
many  a  year.     That  chance   lost,  the  opjxjrtunity   -vas 


;« 


•^m 


'  y'i,  f    III 


4 


'^, 


f 


It-  f 


u 


M^ 


! 

1 

-.     „ 

1 

,  -di 

-  4 

m 

i 

i 

f 

1^ 

J 

H 

■im 


111  'I  *~< 


i\  II  ■\ 


r 


oo 


77/Zf   CHIEF  FACTOR. 


I':i:'''i       '       I 


ilili 


!,.  lil: 


il 


gone,  maybe,  for  ever.  So,  with  a  hasty  good-bye,  lesg 
trying  to  Jean  than  it  would  have  been  had  she  known  that 
he  also  was  going  over  the  seas  if  Bruce  escaped,  he  again 
gave  Bruce  the  i>oint  in  the  hills  where  they  should  meet 
when  he  ventured  from  the  Castle,  and  was  gone — out  of 
the  girl's  life. 

Brian  had  not  been  gone  long  when  there  came  a  knock- 
ing at  the  dv.or.  Jean  looked  out  of  the  window  and  saw 
some  dark  forms  on  the  Castle  steins  below.  She  warned 
her  brother,  and  they  hastily  and  noiselessly  descended  to 
the  dungeons.  Jean  did  not  question  Bruce's  plans.  She 
had  strong  faith  in  his  resources.  He  quickly  told  her 
that  he  was  going  to  hide  in  the  draw-well.  He  explained 
that  there  was  a  hole  in  the  side  of  the  well,  into  which 
a  man  could  crawl,  evidently  designed  for  fugitives  like 
himself.     Then  he  urged  her  away. 

She  hastily  mounted  the  stairs,  and  proceeded  to  open 
the  outer  door.  The  bars  clanked  down,  the  panel  creaked 
open,  and  four  men  stepped  into  the  light  of  the  candle. 
Her  face  showed  no  excitement,  though  her  eyes  were  un- 
usually bright. 

**What  is  it'you're  wantin',  men,  at  this  hour?"  she 
asked.     <' My  faither's  ri)  at  hame."    •*-  ^ 

"  Ay,  ay,  but  we  didna  come  to  see  your  faither,  lassie, 
but  your  brither  wha  bides  wi'  ye  the  nicht,  whatever," 
answered  a  tall  officer. 

"  Ye' 11  please  to  remember  that  my  name  is  Jean 
Fordie,"  the  girl  responded  proudly;  ''and  also  ye'll 
mind  that  you  cam  like  thieves  in  the  nicht ;  so  be  thank- 
fu'  that  I  didna  fire  on  ye,  afore  asking  ye  to  explain  your 
troublin'  the  peace  of  a  lonely  girl." 

**  You're  vera  high  and  michty,  Mistress  Jean  Fordie, 


FOR   T.OCirABER  NO  MORE:' 


6i 


and  ye  carry  your  wits  wi'  you.  But  I  ken  that  ye're  no 
bidin'  alane  the  nicht.  There's  places  empty  at  the  Rob 
Roy  that  should  l)e  filled  wi'  the  lilt  o'  the  shoes  of  Jean 
Fordie  and  Bruce  Fordie  and  Brian  Kingley,  whiles.  Oh, 
ay,  there's  thochts  that'll  l)c  thocht  the  nicht,  whether 
we  wull  or  no.  And  so  ye'll  l)e  just  standin' aside,  Mis- 
tress Jean  Fordie,  and  if  yer  brither's  no  here,  we'll  be 
lindin'  wha  is  here,  forbye." 

One  of  the  officers  had  bolted  the  panel,  and  stood 
guard  by  it.  The  leader  again  addressed  Jean,  since  she 
made  no  motion  forward.  **  Shall  we  be  takin*  the  licht 
frae  ye,  Jean  Fordie,  or  wull  ye  gang  wi'  us  and  save  us 
trouble?"      ^  --  ,   ' 

Without  a  word  now  she  preceded  them  with  the  light 
upstairs ;  and  then  every  room  was  searched  dowiT  to  the 
dungeons.  As  they  were  going  below  the  officer  said  to 
her:  **  He'll  no  have  got  awa'  by  ony  door  syne  we've 
been  in,  and  there's  mair  o'  thae  lads  outside."  He 
pointed  to  his  companions,  and  chuckled  to  himself.  The 
officer,  after  close  search,  failed  to  discover  the  subterra- 
nean passage ;  for  Brian  and  Bruce  had  placed  the  stones 
again  in  their  proper  position,  and  had  filled  the  inter- 
stices with  improvised  mortar,  ^he  officer  was  baffled. 
Again  they  searched  the  Castle  thoroughly,  sounding  the 
walls  for  movable  panels,  exploring  the  roofs  and  the  chim- 
neys, and  at  last  coming  as  before  to  the  dungeons.  Sud- 
denly the  leader  paused  at  the  draw-well.  He  stooped  and 
lifted  the  trap-door,  and  taking  the  candle  from  Jean, 
held  it  down  as  far  as  he  could.  But  it  did  not  light  be- 
low itself.  It  is  not  probable  that  the  man  expected  to 
find  anything  there ;  he  did  the  thing  mechanically. 
Then  he  handed  the  candle  back  to  Jean,  turned  aside, 


{ 


il 


1 

'ii ' 

1 

j* 

Jli 

i,'„  ..< 

i'i 

!i  i;i 

1 
i.  i 

62 


rA^£   C///i?/"  FACTOR. 


and  picked  up  a  large  stone  lying  loose  on  the  ground.  He 
raised  the  stone,  looking  at  her.  She  held  her  countenance 
unmoved,  but  her  heart  throbbed  so  violently  that  she 
turned  sick.  He  raised  the  stone  and  let  it  drop  into  the 
darkness.  Jean  turned  deathly  white.  As  if  by  accident, 
she  dropped  the  candle,  and  it  went  out.  In  the  gloom 
they  heard  the  stone  boom  once,  twice,  thrice,  against  the 
sides  of  the  well ;  then  there  was  silence,  and  again  a  hol- 
low echoing  thud  as  it  struck  the  water. 

Then  Jean  spoke,  and  her  voice  seemed,  to  herself,  an 
infinite  distance  away.     **  You  see,  there's  naethin'." 

All  her  life  long  she  thanked  God  that  in  thai  sickening 
moment  she  had  remembered  the  hole  in  the  side  of  tl.-^ 
well,  else  the  horrible  susi)ense  vould  have  made  her  shriek 
out,  or  restrain  the  officer's  hard." 

She  heard  the  trap-door  drop.  She  drew  a  great  breath 
of  thankfulness,  and  said  :  "  Ye' 11  hae  to  find  yer  way  up 
again  as  best  you  can  ;  or  stop  here  till  I  get  the  candle 
lichted." 

They  essayed  to  follow  her,  however,  and  groped  their 
way  to  ihe  staircase  and  ascended.  She  Imrried  up-stairs, 
lighted  another  candle,  and  brought  it  down  to  them  as| 
they  stood  at  the  door  ready  to  go. 

*'Is  there  ony  ither  place  you  wad  care  to  search? "| 
she  said  with  some  sarcasm. 

"  Ye've  a  verra  canna  heid,  Mistress  Jean  Fordie  (sincel 
ye' 11  be  haein't  the  name  wi'  a'  its  handles)  ;  and  ye've 
helpit  him  weel  awa',  I  ken.     But  ye'll  no  carry  that  heid 
heigh  in  Braithen  in  days  to  come,  I'll  be  thinkin*.     .And 
that's  my  blessin'  tae  ye  ;  which  I'd  no  hae  gied  ye,  war] 
yer  tongue  no  sae  sour,  Mistress  Jean  Fordie." 

**  It's  easy  for  a  woman  to  say  bitter  things,  but  it| 


*' FOR  LOCHABER  NO  MORE.' 


63 


>  I 


oughtna  to  be  sae  easy  for  a  man  to  answer  them  bitterly," 
replied  she  very  gravely,  and  with  a  strange  sadness  in  her 
tone.  "And  if  you  had  a  brither  that  was  hunted  like  a 
dog  inside  his  sister's  door,  ye'd  be  bitter  too,  maybe; 
but  ye'd  tak'  it  ill  o*  onyane  sayin*  hard  things  o'  thae 
sister." 

There  were  no  tears  in  her  eyes,  but  they  swam  through 
her  words.  She  foresaw  all  too  clearly  what  the  man  had 
prophesied,  though  she  could  not  know  how  far  she  would 
!)e  humbled  by  scandal  and  falsehood,  which  was  God's 
tempering  of  the  wind  to  what  she  was  able  to  bear.  The 
full  strain  of  her  trouble  came  with  her  increasing  power  to 
endure  it. 

The  officer  was  taken  back  by  this  new  attitude.  He 
had  been  angry  at  being  baffled  by  a  girl ;  but  he  knew 
that  his  spite  was  unworthy  of  a  man.  He  did  the  manly 
thing.  He  said  to  her  :  "I'll  no  say  but  ye* re  richt,  and 
I'll  be  askin'  ye  to  forget  what  I  said  tae  ye  the  noo.  I'm 
but  a  rough  carle,  ye  ken,  and  ye  hae  sic  an  edge  tae  your 
words  when  ye  wull.  Sae  good-nicht  tae  ye,  lassie,  good- 
nicht  tae  ye  kindly."  ^ 

The  door  opened  and  they  were  gone. 

Meanwhile  Andrew  Venlaw  was  sitting  alone  in  his 
room,  his  hands  clasped  between  his  knees,  his  eyes  fixed 
jiainfully  upon  the  floor.  Suddenly  he  raised  himself, 
shook  his  shoulders  as  if  to  free  himself  of  some  load,  left 
the  house,  and  went  to  the  Salmon's  Head.  There  he 
inquired  for  the  Hudson's  Bay  officer,  whom  finding  he 
remained  with  for  an  hour.  When  he  left  again,  the  other 
laid  a  hand  upon  his  shoulder,  and  said  :  **  Not  to  Dunbar 
then,  Mr.  Venlaw,  but  London.     There  straight  to  me  at 


1 


i 


IJi'W'l 


I 


1 

! 

■ 

f 

i 

! 

1 

1 

1  III:  If 

. 

1 

1 1 

(        : 

;  i 

■J.i 
1  ] 

1, 

I 

1 1 


■'II 


I  ;!: 


64 


r/lE  CHIEF  FACTOR, 


the  address  you  have,  and  afterwards — an  honest  ad  van - 
turer  of  the  North  !  " 

To  this  Venlaw  nodded  an  assent,  and  then  strode  away  I 
into  the  night,  thinking  upon  his  intended  exile,  but  not 
knowing  that  those  two  others  were  to  be  exiles  to  the 
same  regions  ;  and  they  remained  ignorant  of  his  pilgrim- 
age also.  -  >   .      - 

Looking  after  him,   Moore  said :   "  He'll  be  the  very 
chief  of  chief  factors  off  there,  or  I  know  nothing  of  the 
H.  B.  C.     All — all  because  of  a  woman.     Well,  the  Com- 
pany owes   much  to   women.     They  are   the  makers  of| 
exiles." 

Andrew  Venlaw  twice  turned  to  go  to  his  home,  and 
twice  changed  his  mind.  At  last  he  decided,  and  moved 
up  the  river  again  to  Cowrie  Castle.  When  he  reached  it 
he  stood  long  in  the  shadows  of  the  yews.  Once  or  twice  I 
a  woman's  form  cast  a  shadow  on  the  blind;  and  once  a| 
man's  shadow  was  there  also.  At  this,  something  seemed 
to  disturb  him  greatly.  He  shuddered  violently.  Pre- 
sently he  threw  his  arms  against  a  tree,  and  leaned  his 
head  on  them.  If  one  looked  for  such  a  thing  of  a  big 
man,  one  had  said  that  he  sobbed.  But  any  that  had 
known  him  years  later  would  have  declared  this  impossi- 
ble. When  he  looked  up  again  he  said  in  a  shaking  voice : 
*'  O  lassie,  lassie,  I  thocht  ye  Hke  the  sna'— cauld,  but  as 
pure ;  and  a'  the  time  his  kisses  were  burnin'  on  yer  lips. 
If  I  stopped  here  I  maun  fecht  him,  I  maun  kill  him.  But 
I'm  going  awa',  and  I'll  forget  ye  by-and-by,  maybe.  I'll 
never  seek  to  ken  what's  cam  to  ye  ;  for  the  best  maun  l)e 
waur  than  this.  I'll  be  gain*  frae  ye,  lassie,"  he  con- 
tinued, in  the  homely  dialect  in  which  he  had  been  bred, 
'^and  nae  mair  will  I  look  upo'  your  face  again.     Ye  hue 


E    'li' 


iiiii  •  u 


honest  ad  van - 


FOR  LOCHABER  NO  MORE.'' 


65 


cursed  me  wi*  a  curse  which  I'll  bear  wi'  me  a'  the  days 
|o'  my  life.  For  ye  hae  shaken  my  faith  i'  the  warld — 
it's  true,  ay,  but  it's  true — *  the  human  heart  is  deceitful 
abune  a'  things  and  desperately  wicked.'  Good-bye,  Jean 
Fordie,  and  God  forgie  ye !  " 

He  went  slowly  back  towards  the  town.  On  his  way  he 
saw  a  reveller  of  the  fair  coming.  The  man  was  singing  a 
plaintive  ditty  in  a  fashion  grotesquely  blithe.  Andrew 
Venlaw  recalled  it  many  a  time  afterwards.  Now  it  was 
like  blows  in  the  face  to  him. 


''   ';  J 


i 


■  i 


**  Nae  mair  at  Logan  Kirk  will  he 
Atween  the  preach  ins  meet  wi*  me ; 
Meet  wi*  me  and  when  'tis  mirk, 
Convoy  me  hame  frae  Logan  Kirk." 


;  •■  ■■'  > 


H,    .  ,,j 


•'•'1 , 


I  Ml 


vmm 


J  -<ii 


11 


' 


''II 


it) 


CHAPTER  IV. 


'Hi 


if 


"THE   ICE    FIELDS   AND   THE   MAIN." 

Two  sister  shii^s  are  breasting  a  nasty  Atlantic  sea,  a 
hundred  miles  apart.  They  are  running,  shoulders  shiver- 
ing, against  the  wild  burglars  of  the  north — the  inflexible, 
implacable  winds.  They  subtend  a  great  angle  of  riot. 
Above,  there  is  the  spiteful  whipping  of  icy  shrouds,  the 
shrieking  wrench  of  the  mast ;  below,  is  the  dull  booming 
of  dislodged  cargo,  the  rustling  milange  of  disorder. 
Upon  the  deck  of  one  of  these  unabashed  invaders  stands 
a  man,  remarkable,  even  in  this  buffeting  of  the  elements, 
for  the  strong  defiance  of  a  stalwart  body  and  an  indomi- 
table mind ;  for  an  austere  firmness  of  countenance  and 
stern  composure.  All  this  distinction  of  character  would 
have  appeared  possible  to  one  who  had  rounded  the  com- 
pass of  an  adventurous  career,  but  it  seemed  hardly  fitting 
to  so  young  a  man  as  this  spectator  of  a  pretty  combat  be- 
tween a  little  warrior  hanging  to  life  by  rivets,  and  weap- 
oned  by  cotton,  with  these  tireless  cohorts,  ranging  the 
world,  waylaying,  rattling  the  bones  of  disaster  down 
the  corri4ors  of  foam,  or  again,  mercifully  breathing  new- 
leases  of  years  into  the  nostrils  of  man ; — the  irresistible 
crusaders  of  the  sea.  But  age  and  character  are  matters  of 
constitution  and  circumstance,  and  this  man  had  granite  in 
muscle  and  mind,  drawn,  maybe,  from  a  race  of  hardy  an- 


THE  ICE  FIELDS  AND  THE  MAIN:'  67 


cestors  and  the  rugged  hills  of  his  hative  land,  as  from  a 
sudden  collision  of  events,  whereof  we  know. 

He  preferred  being  lashed  to  a  mast  or  capstan  to  going 
below.  No  lurch  of  the  rowdyish  little  craft,  no  racketing 
of  bulwarks,  or  snapping  of  spars,  or  huge  onslaught  of  the 
waves  dismayed  him.  He  was  interested  ;  that  was  all. 
Until  he  sailed  from  London  town  he  had  never  seen  the 
ocean  nor  boarded  a  big  vessel.  He  was  learning  of  lands 
beyond  Pentland  and  seas  beyond  Forth.  He  had  had  as 
his  dream  of  the  business  of  life  the  very  pleasant  art  of 
architecture.  He  had  been  suddenly  burked  of  that  by  a 
handful  of  disasters.  Now  he  was  studying  the  wide  ar- 
chitecture of  the  world  along  the  sluices  of  the  sea,  seizing 
upon  the  flying  ra(/it'  of  the  elements,  more  ambitious  to 
experience  life  itself  than  to  accomplish,  merely  that  he 
might  say  his  /o  Triumphe :  which  is  the  beginning  of 
wisdom.  He  is  going  to  a  self-created  exile,  but  he  looks 
to  turn  it  into  a  most  brave  adventure.  It  suits  him  to 
grapple  with  the  unexplored  and  incompanionable  north. 

The  other  ship,  which  had  been  longer  time  out  on  the 
voyage,  was  taking  her  punishment  with  a  stolid  resistance. 
She  shook  off"  the  waves  with  the  big  assurance  of  old  cus- 
tom, and  drove  straight  along  the  trail  of  her  enemies,  in- 
vincible but  creaking  in  every  joint.  She  was  wounded  in 
a  limb  here  and  there,  her  bulwarks  were  splintered  and  her 
sides  were  clattering,  but  she  ran  her  figure-head  straight 
at  the  bellowing  troops  of  shipwreck,  and  held  her  way. 
Her  inhabitants,  barracked  in  her  well- wedged  ribs,  swel- 
tered in  the  sickening  air  of  her  exhausted  lungs,  too  dull 
to  count  hours,  many  too  timid  to  leave  their  tossing  beds. 
But  even  here  were  two  men  who  took  the  fortunes  of  the 
sea,  as  if  they  were  boon  companions  of  the  ship  herself. 


•  *  L 


I 


1 


'H,    tji 


Ir: 


<  ■     :■ 


ill 


i 


!  I 


W!B: 


H! 


l\i 


68 


rJ/E   CHIEF  FACTOR. 


quite  as  substantially  and  a  deal  more  gaily.  For  one  had 
come  out  of  worse  danger  than  the  romp  of  the  ocean, 
and  the  other  had  left  behind  a  squandered  fortune  and  a 
mischievous  existence,  glad  to  be  rid  of  harassing  conse- 
quences, as  he  was  trying  to  be  free  of  reproachful  mem- 
ories. 

*<  Listen  to  that !  "  said  he  to  his  comrade.  *'  There's 
the  swing  of  the  universe,  and  the  rebellion  of  the  Poles. 
Bedad,  we're  helpless  bits  when  the  elements  play  tennis 
with  us._  But  it's  wonderful  all  the  same,  tossing  about 
with  the  four  winds  of  the  world.  It  makes  a  man  think. 
And,  my  word  for  it,  if  I  was  a  sailor,  I'd  come  to  think 
more  about  the  Thing  behind  the  storm  than  the  storm 
itself.  For  I'll  whisper  it  to  you,  my  valiant  Scot,  the 
winds  and  the  sea  are  for  the  making  of  men  out  of  spal- 
peens, who  tread  the  solid  ground  as  though  there  was 
never  lightning  to  wither  nor  water  to  drown.  .  .  . 
Are  you  listening  to  the  sermon,  me  boy  ?  " 

The  speaker  laughed  softly,  but  with  the  slightest  ac- 
cent of  timidity,  as  if  he  were  not  sure  how  his  remarks 
would  be  regarded.  But  the  other  nodded  up  at  him 
gravely  and  companionably,  and  he  went  on. 

"  What's  the  cause  of  this,  you're  askin*  out  of  your 
canny  eye,  Scotsman?  .  .  .  Well,  lying  last  night 
with  sleep  playing  hide-and-seek  round  me,  I  got  to  think- 
ing of  the  days  when  I  was  a  lad,  not  so  high  as  the  breast 
that  gave  bone  to  my  body,  and  I  thought  of  as  lovely  a 
woman  as  ever  gave  the  world  a  man,  and  a  day  at  Mala- 
hide  where  the  sea  comes  striding  in  with  the  pride  of  an 
army,  and  she  saying  to  me,  —  *  Brian,  me  lad,  there's 
nothing  on  earth  so  mighty  as  the  sea  and  the  sun.'  And 
she  read  to  me  out  of  a  book  like  none  other — though  lit- 


nipg^wiw^miinpiw 


^^«\«i>fl. 


THE  ICE  FIELDS  AND  T/fE  MAIN." 


69 


I 


tie  you  and  I  regard  it — and  made  me  learn  by  heart  what 
she  read.  And  the  words  came  to  me  last  night,  and  went 
swimming  back  and  forth  through  my  mind.  Well,  here 
they  are : 

•'  'The  Lord  hath  his  way  in  the  whirlwind  and  in  the  storm,  and 
the  clouds  are  the  dust  of  his  feet. 

•'  'He  rebuketh  the  sea,  and  maketh  it  dry,  and  drieth  up  the  riv- 
ers; Babylon  languisheth,  and  Carmel,  and  the  flower  of  Lebanon 
languisheth.' 

"  That  was  the  fashion  of  the  thing,  and — Here,  take  this 
match  for  your  pipe,  and  make  never  a  grin  on  your  face 
when  I  say  to  you  that  the  word  which  the  good  v/oman 
speaks  to  the  child  once  swung  at  her  breasts,  when  she's 
just  stepping  out  of  the  world,  is  worth  keeping  better 
than  I've  kept  it.  .  .  .  But,  maybe,  my  iad  of  Brai- 
then,  there's  a  time  for  remembering  everything,  and  this 
is  one  of  them ;  for,  here  we  are  with  a  mad  record  behind 
us  and  a  walloping  sea  beneath  us,  the  wind  playing  nine- 
pins with  the  masts  and  spars,  and  a  long  white  land  ahead 
all  snow  and  wild  meat,  where  we'll  be  carrying  our  lives 

in  the  palms  of  our  hands ;  and  Bruce,  me  boy What's 

that?     .     .     ." 

There  was  a  sudden  heaving  turmoil  beneath  them,  a 
harsh  horrible  shock  and  grating,  and  a  big  palaver  of 
wind  and  breakage  above,  through  which  ran  the  wild  cry 
of  a  human  voice : 

"An  iceberg!     .     .     .     We're  lost !     .     .     ." 
.     .     .  They  were  not  lost,  but  a  battered,  abused  vessel 
went  tumbling  on  into  the  spawn  of  the  elements. 

In  the  room  of  a  gloomy  old  castle  in  Scotland,  a  girl 
sat  at  this  moment  weaving.     A  sombre  man,  brooding  at 


%t 


'  !fi| 

i  t 

1    V 
■  In 

1 1 


f  -1 


I'l  : 


!l    !^ 


70 


THE   CHIEF  FACTOR. 


III  ! 


W 


Ijlll  ! 


i  1! 


ill 


3 

1  III 

1' 

1     i  ■  111) 

1 

Hi 


'I'M 


a  fireless  hearthstone,  raised  his  head  now  and  then  as  if  to 
listen  to  ^he  wind  shrieking  up  from  the  courtyard  and  the 
ruined  chai^el  to  the  quivering  window.  Several  times  he 
took  his  pipe  from  his  mouth  as  if  to  si)eak.  But  he  waited. 
At  last,  looking  with  a  sidelong  glance  at  the  gra^e  indus- 
trious figure  by  the  loom,  he  said:  "It'll  be  bad  eneuch 
for  ony  that's  travelling  the  hills  the  nicht." 

"It'll  be  waur  ^or  ony  that  travels  by  sea  the  liicnt," 
she  replied       1  ^      i'vv>  y^t  kindly  tone. 

Tne  old  ia  \n  Jv-Irred  fretfully  in  his  chair.  "Isnathe 
land  eneuch  bu  you  "''  1st  be  fashin'  aboot  the  sea?  .  .  . 
What's  put  the  sea  into  yer  head  ?  "  he  added,  something 
not  quite  so  gruffly,  however. 

"  Maybe  it  was  God — and  my  mither,"  she  responded 
solemnly. 

The  old  man  stared,  shook  his  head  as  in  protest,  and 
was  silent  again. 

In  a  cottage  on  the  braeside,  at  the  same  moment,  an 
idiot  sat  drawing  grotesque  figures  on  the  hearthstone  with 
a  cinder.  Suddenly  he  paused,  as  the  rain  and  wind  splut- 
tered down  the  chimney  upon  the  fire,  and  said  with  a 
prodigious  leer:  "O,  O,  whustle,  whustle !  Puir  Else! 
Puir  Pete  !  Flee  awa'  !  flee  awa'  !  O  wee  rats'  drowr. ! 
O,  O,  Puir  Else!  Puir  Pete!  " 

"  O,  hush,  for  God's  sake,  Pete,"  said  a  petulant  voice 
behind  him. 


H,,„l',^ 


CHAPTER  V. 


'»'.   E   SLANT    OF    THE    YEARS. 


itulant  voice 


Eight  years  is  a  considerable  measure  in  the  range  of 
youth.  Less  time  than  that  has  turned  hair  grey,  brought 
wrinkles  to  the  face,  dimmed  the  eyes,  robloed  a  face  '"*' 
blushes  or  the  power  for  blushes,  and  chilled  the  blood  .n 
the  veins.  Cowrie  Castle  looks  the  same.  Eighty  t"  -"^s 
eight  years  could  make  little  difference  in  it.  It  sta:  ^  Ui 
grey  and  tall,  a  sentinel  among  the  hills,  monumental  of 
those  who  had  travelled  the  slant  of  the  years  to  wL  ?  aiI 
paths  end. 

Within  the  Castle  little  of  itself  is  changed,  though  if 
you  had  gone  below  to  the  dungeons  you  would  have  seen 
that  the  old  draw-well  was  fastened  permanently  down,  so 
that  none  could  raise  it.  This  was  one  manifestation  of  a 
father's  anger  when  he  learned  that  his  son  had  escaped 
from  the  law  by  its  means ;  perhaps,  however,  not  so  much 
angry  at  the  escape,  as  at  the  thing  being  achieved  success- 
fully under  his  very  eye.  He  had  cast  the  lad  out  of  his 
heart  and  home  ;  for  he  declared  he  had  forfeited  the  right 
to  one  and  had  dishonoured  the  other.  Yet  this  lad  in  his 
youth  had  been  more  to  his  father  than  the  girl.  But  that 
is  the  way  of  men :  they  are  often  cruelest  to  those  they 
have  loved  most. 

Black  Fordie  never  inquired  after  his  son.  But  once 
every  year  there  came  a  letter  from  him  to  Jean  ;  and  she 


!    : 


,,. 


1^ 


THE   CirrRF  FACTOR. 


h.r 


.^ 


\\ 


iiiiilll 


read  parts  of  it  aloud  as  she  sat  by  the  fire  in  her  father's 
presence ;  but  as  if  she  were  reading  to  herself.  She 
knew  that  he  listened,  but  she  never  hinted  at  that.  In 
all  else  Fordie  was  kind  enough,  kinder  even  than  in  years 
past.  He  was  unhappy  if  she  were  away  for  a  day.  He 
was  moved  too  by  a  pity  which  made  him  almost  tender 
to  her  at  times.  For,  since  that  momentous  day  of  Bel- 
tane Fair,  Braithen  had  not  been  a  place  of  happiness. 
And  Fordie,  with  impotent  anger  at  the  man  who  had! 
caused  her  suffering,  knew  this,  as  he  also  knew  that  she 
was  innocent  and  good  as  when  she  came  into  the  world. 
Therefore,  among  the  people  he  was  more  stern  and  satur- 
nine than  ever.  It  had  been  said  of  Jean  that  she  had 
loved  ur. ..  Isely  a  gentleman  who  had  left  her  ;  and  though 
the  tale  of  Brian's  midnight  visit  to  the  Castle  was  ex- 
plained by  those  few  who  were  indignant  at  the  injustice 
they  believed  was  being  done  to  a  girl  who,  maybe,  had 
been  indiscreet  but  not  wicked,  the  matter  was  persistently 
kept  alive  through  a  source  not  difficult  to  trace ;  and  the 
girl  found  it  hard  to  live  detraction  down.  Yet  she  had 
not  lost  her  beauty.  Her  face,  though  less  rounded,  had 
the  grave  sweetness  and  settled  dignity  which  comes  some- 
times to  the  suffering  young. 

The  seventh,  the  eighth,  year  saw  no  letter  from  Bruce 
at  the  usu'-l  time.  When  it  was  apparent  that  none  would 
come  she  visibly  suffered.  There  was  no  pining  look,  but 
her  cheek  became  more  delicate,  and  more  sensitive,  so 
that  the  colour  came  and  went  upon  it  hastily.  There 
was  one  pleasant  thing  at  the  bottom  of  her  Pandora's 
box.  It  came  year  after  year,  and  sometimes  twice  and 
thrice  a  year,  in  the  person  of  Benoni.  She  used  to  won- 
der why  it  was  she  had  such  a  feeling  of  comradeship  for 


III 


wm^mmmmmt^r^^ 


TIfE  SLANT  OF  THE    YEARS, 


73 


this  old  man  so  far  l)elow  even  her  social  scale.  Rut  her 
'father,  as  if  to  free  her  from  occasional  interrogations,  told 
her  once  that  Benoni  was  a  distant  relative,  but  that  she 
must  not  question  him  about  it,  for  there  was  a  story  and 
he  wished  it  to  be  unknown.  Since  her  trouble  had  come 
upon  her  Benoni  had  been  kind  and  companionable  to  her 
after  a  new  fashion.  He  came  oftener  and  stayed  longer 
than  formerly.  He  sent  her  books,  most  carefully  and  in- 
telligently chosen ;  biography,  history,  romance,  old 
plays,  and  poets  of  the  time.  Thet*  ^  had  develoi)ed  her 
amazingly.  Her  father  wished  her  to  cease  weaving,  but 
she  would  never  do  so ;  she  would  even  have  gone  to  the 
woollen  mill,  lately  established  at  Glaishen  Water,  but  to 
this  he  would  not  consent  at  all ;  for  he  said,  as  was  true, 
she  had  no  need  to  earn  her  living. 

Still,  she  went  to  the  mill  occasionally,  because  she  liked 
to  see  the  activity  of  it  and  to  hear  and  watch  the  rumbling 
machinery.  Besides,  she  had  a  friend  there ;  a  pretty  girl 
of  merry  heart  and  daring  tongue,  and  who  never  ceased  to 
sing  Jean's  praises  where  most  they  needed  singing ;  and 
while  tjiie  Dominie,  her  uncle,  lived,  she  constantly  and 
viciously  fought  him  upon  the  matter  of  Jean,  as  upon  his 
attitude  towards  all  women.  But  Katie  Dryhoj^e  had  one 
opponent  as  stealthy  as  she  was  brave,  so  that  when  Jean 
visited  the  mill  she  was  received,  if  not  with  actual  slight, 
at  least  with  furtive  glances,  and  by  no  means  enthusiastic 
greeting :  due  also  in  some  slight  degree  to  the  fact  that 
she  was  superior  to  them  all,  both  by  education  and  the 
advantages  of  breeding  got  from  her  mother.  But  she 
could  and  did  endure  it  in  a  very  womanly  and  proud 
fashion.  She  knew  her  enemy  too,  for  Elsie  did  not 
hide  the  light  of  her  antipathy  under  a  bushel,  and  always 


ir  \ 


&' 


74 


r///':  r ////-:/'  factor. 


I 


did  more  than   nod  significantly  when  Jean  entered  tho 
mill. 

One  summer  day,  at  the  point  of  time  when  this  chaptir 
oiHJns,  Jean  visited  the  mill.  It  was  about  five  o'clock  oi 
the  afternoon,  and  the  last  half-hour  of  work  was  on, 
There  was  to  be  a  merry-making  the  following  day  in  hon 
our  of  an  enlargement  to  the  mill,  and  all  the  girls  were  in 
gootl  humour.  The  flight  of  the  sluUtle  was  accompanied 
by  a  low  clatter  of  conversation.  The  greeting  to  Jean  was 
heartier  than  usual.  She  turned  half  unconsciously  to  tlu' 
loom  where  Elsie  usually  worked,  and  saw  that  her  place 
was  empty.  She  was  welcomed  heartily  by  Katie,  and 
they  chatted  plea.santly ;  but  Jean's  eyes  kept  wandering  to 
the  deserted  loom.  Katie  .saw  the  wandering  glance,  and 
at  la.st  said :  "She's  gane,  and  for  guid;  and  serve  her 
richt!" 

•♦  What  serves  her  richt?  "  Jean  asked. 

"  That  she  had  to  gang,  and  that  she'll  no  come  back. 
This  morning  she  (piarrelled  wi'  the  lassie  working  the  next 
loom  tae  her,  and  she  reachit  ower  and  ran  a  knife  clean 
through  the  weft.  The  foreman  happened  to  be  goin'  by. 
He  see'd  it,  and  awa*  she  had  to  gang.  He  says  she'll  no 
get  back  again,  for  she  was  aye  making  trouble." 

*'  She  was  a  good  worker,"  remarked  Jean. 

*'  Of  course  she  was,  but  that  disna  matter,  and  the  mill 
can  get  alang  wi'out  her,  whiles." 

*♦  But  can  she  get  alang  wi'out  the  mill,  Katie?  She  ha.s 
her  idiot  brother  to  care  for,"  Jean  asked  gravely. 

'•  Let  her  hae  a  sup  o'  the  misery  she's  fain  to  gic 
ither  bodies.  It  'ill  do  her  guid,"  snappishly  replied  ti.'.' 
other. 

*«  Don't  be  so  hard-hearted,  Katie." 


THE  SLANT  OF  THE    YEARS. 


75 


-'i 


Jan  entered  tlu- 


,  and  the  mil 


•'  You  mak  me  fair  angry,  Jean,"  was  the  impatient  re- 
joinder.    ♦♦  She  doesna — love  you  1  " 

♦•  But  that's  nu  reason  for  me  no  Ijcin'  sorry  for  her," 
Jean  urged. 

•*()h,  you  las.s  ! — body,  but  I  could  shake  you!"  re- 
sponded the  other,  her  eyes  flicking  with  indignation. 
She  thought  that  Jean  should  rejoice  at  her  detractor's 
downfall.  She  did  actually  scjueeze  Jean's  arm  till  she 
made  her  wince  with  i)ain.  She  turned  to  the  loom  and 
nmttered  detached  words  of  anger  for  a  mcinent.  'Ihen 
she  spoke  again  to  Jean.  "  Ye' re  as  meek's  a  moose,  and 
I  could  sing  wi'  joy  at  her  goin,'  forbye." 

*'  I  can't  forget  about  the  idiot  brither,  Katie." 

"  VVeel,  wiiy  doesna  she  mind  that  she's  gotten  an  awfu' 
idiot  in  the  family,  and  leave  ither  folk  alane,  that  are  saints 
to  her  sinner,  whiles?  Body!  1  could  just  break  a'  the 
commandments  to  spite  her. — I'll  no  hear  ye  speak  ;  I'll  no 
hear  ye  s|)eak.  Ony  way  ye  si)eak  too  guid  English  for  me, 
siccan  an  education  you  hac  got.  There !  "  And  the  lit- 
tle warrior  laid  her  hand  on  Jean's  mouth  impulsively. 

After  a  little  the  clacking  wheels  and  pulleys  stopped  : 
the  soft  buzz  of  the  bobbins,  the  click  of  the  loom,  the  rat- 
tling flight  of  the  shuttles,  the  thud  of  weights  on  the  cloth, 
the  swish  of  the  broom  over  the  web,  the  snip  of  scissors, — 
even  the  smell  of  the  dyeing  seemed  suddenly  to  be  dissi- 
pated,— and  the  mill  emptied  into  the  street. 

Jean  and  Katie  passed  with  the  others  into  the  warm  air 
of  evening.  *  ever,  perhaps,  had  Braithen  appeared  more 
beautiful.  Everything  glowed.  A  slight  breeze  swayed 
the  ancient  sign-i>oards  of  the  burgh,  lifted  the  ivy  gently 
on  ruined  walls,  and  swung  a  stray  wisp  of  hair  across  the 
face  of  a  sonsy  lass,  as  she  traversed  the  narrow  colible 


^:\ 


i\ 


I 


,,  ^, 


MM 


76 


THE   CHIEF  FACTOR. 


wm 


^  ii^iii 


iJ''. 


streets.  As  Jean  and  Katie  passed  down  a  brae  among 
crying  fishwives,  lounging  soldiers,  and  some  idle  revellers, 
they  came  suddenly  at  a  turn  of  the  street  upon  a  small 
crowd  gathered  round  some  object  upon  the  ground. 
Whatever  it  was  it  caused  the  crowd  notable  amusement, 
for  the  girls  heard  loud  laughing  as  they  drew  near.  They 
were  about  to  pass  the  group  hurriedly,  but  Jean  catching 
sight  of  the  cause  of  the  blockade,  suddenly  stepj^ed  forward 
among  the  men,  and  said  with  indignation  :  '•  Shame  on 
ye,  to  lauch  at  what  God  has  deformed  !  " 

Upon  the  ground  sat  Pete  the  idiot,  his  immense  head 
wagging,  tearing  to  bits  raw  fish,  given  him  by  the  coarse 
humourists  about  him,  and  eating  it  while  he  laughed  hor- 
ribly. Some  drunken  fellow  had  thrown  a  handful  of  flour 
on  his  head,  and  another,  still  more  drunken,  was  ofl'ering 
him  a  mug  of  liquor.  Jean  pushed  this  aside,  and  stoop- 
ing, caught  the  idiot  gently  by  the  arm.  **  Come  wi'  me, 
Pete,"  she  said,  **  and  I'll  gie  ye  better  than  this  to  eat, 
laddie." 

The  idiot  would  not  stir,  but  spluttered  over  his  sicken- 
ing repast.  "  The  bright  colors  of  her  kerchief  caught  his 
eye.     He  reached  out  his  hand  for  it.     She  flushed. 

*'  Come  wi'  me,  laddie,"  she  urged,  and  she  quickly  drew 
the  kerchief  from  her  neck  and  bosom  and  held  it  up  to 
him.  "I'll  gie  you  this  if  ye'll  come,  laddie,"  she  per- 
sisted.    **  Come  !  do  come  !  "  "^ 

The  idiot  tottered  to  his  feet,  holding  out  his  hand  for 
the  kerchief.  She  gave  it  to  him  and  taking  his  arm  led 
him  shuffling  from  the  crowd.  Katie  had  stood  a  silent 
spectator  of  this  scene  ;  but  when  she  saw  some  of  the  men 
passing  remarks  on  Jean's  palpitating  neck  and  slightly- 
bared  bosom,  she  turned  upon  them  fiercely. 


THE  SLANT  OF  THE    YEARS. 


77 


"  Oh,  ye  rafls  and  cowards  !  "  she  cried.  "  Ye're  grin- 
ning at  what  is  a  shamefu'  thing.  For  that's  Jean  Fordie, 
tlie  'oest  lass  i'  the  borderside  and  oot  o'  Heaven  itsel' ; 
and  as  for  the  fule  waddlin',  ye're  nae  better  yoursels, 
when  ye're  just  slobberin*  wi'  drink.  He's  what  CJod 
made  him,  and  ye're  the  Deil's  own  wark,  an'  that  '11  awa 
wi'  ye  some  day  tae  a  place  waur  ye' 11  wish  ye  had  been 
lules  like  this  to  be  i'  Abram's  bosom  !  " 

At  that  a  fishwife  strode  into  the  crowd  and  vigorously 
finished  the  sermon  that  Katie  so  successfully  began  ;  and 
the  two  girls  passed  down  the  brae  and  into  High  Street 
with  their  imbecile  companion. 

**  Whaur  '11  you  tak'  him,  Jean?  "  said  Katie. 

"I'll  take  him  hame.  He  has  wannered  frae  auld  Jes- 
sie that  cares  for  him,  and  Elsi^  *11  be  in  great  trouble 
when  she  finds  he's  awa'." 

Katie  shrugged  her  delightfully-jjlump  shoulders.  **  I'd 
hae  left  him  to  eat  rotten  fish  till  he  was  awa'  in  guid 
earnest.  But  if  y'ill  hae  your  way,  I'll  gang  wi'  ye  tae 
Flsie's  house,  just  to  see  that  she  doesna  scart  yer  face  for 
bringin*  him  back.  For  she  doesna  want  him,  or  I'm  a 
fiiil  mysel*." 

'•  Then  you  convict  yourself,  Katie,  for  she's  like  a 
niither  to  the  poor  carl,  and  I'll  dae  what  I  think  is  richt, 
whether  she  likes  me  or  no." 

"  Whether  she  likes  ye  or  no  ?  "  was  the  reply,  accom- 
l)anied  by  a  vicious  little  toss  of  the  head.  "  She  likes  ye 
as  weel  as  I  like  her,  and  that's  as  a  cat  likes  a  bird." 

Hut  Jean  only  said  :  '*  Ye're  harder  than  you  need  be, 
Katie." 

They  walked  on  in  silence  through  High  Street,  and 
crossed  the  bridge,  causing  some  renxark  as  they  passed — it 


15 


f 


;8 


THE   Cinr.F  FACTOR. 


% 


was  not  an  errand  outwardly  becoming  ;  Init  they  were 
brave.  At  last  they  entered  the  street  on  the  brae  where 
Klsie  lived.  As  they  did  so  they  saw  old  Jessie  pottering 
Irom  house  to  hou.se,  protesting  with  upraised  hands  that  it 
was  not  through  her  fault  the  laddie  had  escai)ed  ;  and  that 
the  stroke  Elsie  gave  her  on  the  breast  must  be  rei)ented  of 
in  sackcloth  and  ashes — or  something  akin  to  it.  "  ELsie," 
she  said,  "  had  an  awfu'  tongue  and  an  unco'  sjHjrrit ;  and 
nae  mair  wad  she  care  for  the  wol)i)ling  l)ody,  waur  nor 
ony  child  or  ony  drunken  waljster  day  in  day  out  wi' 
his  feckless  ways.  .  .  .  And  Elsie,"  she  continued, 
"was  scaurin'  the  burgh  wi'  a  bit  fire  on  her  tongue 
that  micht  weel  'urn  Shadrach,  Meshach,  and  Abednego  i' 
ony  furnace  i'  Babylon." 

She  had  arrived  at  this  point  in  her  narration,  when  she 
noticed  Jean  and  Katie  with  the  truant ;  while  they,  in 
turn,  saw  Elsie  running  uj)  the  brae  behind  them.  Her 
black  hair  streamed  behind  her,  her  eyes  were  flashing 
with  anger.  Without  a  word  she  ran  upon  them,  caught 
the  idiot  by  the  Ghoulders,  and  pushing  him  before  her 
to  her  cottage  door,  thrust  him  inside,  and  entering, 
slammed  the  door  after  her.  The  only  words  spoken  came 
from  the  idiot  himself,  who  cried  as  he  went, — "  Puir 
Else  !     Oh,  Oh,  the  wey  flee's  drooned — puir  l*ete  !  " 

The  two  girls  walked  away  across  the  river  in  silence. 

After  a  time  Jean  said  r  ♦*  Katie,  do  ye  think  they  wad 
tak  her  back  at  the  mill  ?     It's  dreadfu'  for  her." 

••She's  like  a  wasp  i'  the  place;  Ixsides — oh,  I  canna 
bear  that  you  should  s|>eak  ane  word  for  her,  Jean  ;  for 
she's  leed  and  leed  aboot  you " 

Jean  put  her  arm  through  that  of  the  other.  "  Katie, 
don't  I  ken  a'  aboot  that  ?     But  the  worst  o't  is  ower  for 


THE  SLAMT  OF  THE    YEARS. 


79 


me,  and  a'  will  come  richt  some  day.  I'm  no  in  sic  a 
iuirry  aboot  it  noo.  Anc  gets  patient  after  awhile."  Her 
eyes  suddenly  swam  with  tears,  but  she  went  on  steadily : 
"  I  ken,  Katie,  that  the  foreman  gangs  to  see  your  sister 
Maggie " 


<( 


Oh,  Meg  leads  him  sic  a  dance  !  "  interrupted  the 
little  madcap. 

**  Ay,  I  ken.  Noo,  1  want  ye  to  mak'  Maggie  no  tae 
lead  him  a  dance,  on  condition  that  he  takes  Klsie  back." 

Ratie  sprang  a  step  ahead  of  Jean,  faced  her,  caught  her 
by  the  shoulders  and  shook  her. 

♦*  Oh,  oh,  I  could  shake  you  till  there's  no  a  shake  i' 
yer  body,  if  yer  big  een  didna  look  like  the  picture  o' 
angel's  in  faither's  Bible.  Hut  I'll  shake  ye  as  lang  as  I 
can,  whiles,  and  then " 

Apparently  angry,  she  did  shake  Jean  till  she  had  ex- 
hausted herself;  then,  as  suddenly,  danced  to  her  side 
again,  and,  taking  her  arm,  said  :  '*  I'll  just  do  as  I 
please,  and  that'll  be  out  o'  nae  love  for  Elsie  (l-arvan  !  " 

And  Jean  knew  that  she  had  prevailed,  and  she  linked 
her  arm  in  Katie's,  and  kissed  her  on  the  cheek. 

That  night  Jean  had  a  visitor.  She  did  not  expect  her 
father  home  till  late  ;  and  while  waiting  for  whoever  was 
expected,  she  brought  out  all  the  letters  that  Bruce  had 
written  her  since  he  had  been  gone — they  were  only  five — 
and  read  them  over  and  over,  smoothing  them  out  on  her 
knees  afterwards,  and  thinking  on  each  one  l>efore  she 
pa.ssed  to  another.  It  was  scarcely  necessary,  in  one 
sense,  to  read  them,  for  she  knew  them  by  heart ;  but  the 
sight  of  the  words  seemed  to  give  them  new  life  and  char- 
acter. The  last  lett'^r  had  l)een  written  from  Fort  .Xngel, 
not  very  far  froM  th»i  Arctic  Circle ;  and  it  told  of  trouble 


IS. 


i 


80 


THE   CHIEF  FACTOR. 


lii 

1(1'; 


with  the  Indians,  and  fierce  cold,  and  hazardous  but  fasci« 
nating  hours  with  wild  Ijeasts  ;  and  all  vibrating  with  vig- 
our, manliness,  and  contentment. 

After  the  first  two  letters  Bruce  had  mentioned  Brian  only 
briefly.  Their  separation,  by  appointment  to  different  forts 
was  the  cause  of  Uiis.  And  men  might  be  for  a  lifetime  in 
these  wilds  at  thf.'  beginning  of  the  century,  and  not  see  or 
hear  from  each  f -ther^  so  uncertain  and  roundabout  were  the 
maiis.  In  the  chird  letter  he  said  that  Brian  had  left  the 
Hudson's  Bay  Jompany's  service,  and  had  entered  that  of 
its  great  rival,  he  North  West  Company.  He  assigned  no 
reason  for  thi'  change.  After  that  his  knowledge  of  Bri- 
an's where."  oouts  api^eared  to  cease,  though  he  said  he 
missed  his  old  comrade  continually.  Bruce  had  never 
known  of  the  unhappy  event,  with  its  malicious  circum- 
stances, which  had  nearly  ruined  Jean's  life.  Brian  had 
never  had  the  courage  to  tell  it ;  and  he  did  not  know 
what  injury  he  had  done. 

So  far  as  she  knew,  no  one  in  the  Shiel  Valley  guessed 
what  had  Ixjcome  of  Andrew  Venlaw.  Brian  and  Bru^e 
were  not  aware  of  his  presence  in  the  Hudson's  Bay  Com- 
pany— for  that  was  part  of  his  compact  with  Mr.  Moore. 
Only  one  man  in  Scotland  was  certain  of  his  whereabouts, 
-'»nd  that  was  old  Dominie  Dryhope.  For  five  years  Jean 
was  also  ignorant  on  this  point,  and  she  thought  of  Andrew 
regretfiilly,  because,  as  time  went  on,  she  wrs  sure  that  he 
had  gone  l)ecause  he  had  l)elieved  ill  of  her  and  Brian.  At 
times,  too,  she  thought  of  this  indignantly,  but  that  was 
while  the  fresh  for^e  of  her  trial  was  upon  her. 

At  last  the  Dominie  was  taken  ill,  and  Jean  went  with 
Kniie  to  see  him.  At  first  ii^  would  not  speak  to  her,  but 
lay  on  hlw  couch  glowering  at  her — for  had  not  she  ruined 


'M\ 


TV/A  SLANT  OF  THE    YEARS, 


8l 


his  one  promising  pupil  ?  But  as  days  went  on,  and  her 
presence  affected  him,  in  spite  of  himself,  pleasantly,  he 
unbent  to  her ;  and  at  lasc  he  let  her  and  none  other  tend 
on  him,  though  he  rated  her  not  ungently  still. 

One  day  when  she  came,  he  api)eared  desjieratcly  ex- 
hausted, and  presently  he  told  her  that  he  had  been  finish- 
ing a  letter  to  Andrew,  begun  weeks  l)efore.  "  Ay,  lass," 
said  he,  "  but  my  bonnie  laddie  '11  no  come  back  ;  and 
sic  a  heid,  sic  a  heid,  he  had  !  An'  ye' 11  no  l)e  writin'  for 
him,  for  yc'll  no  clap  een  on  him  this  side  o'  Domesday  ; 
for  you've  broke  the  laddie's  heart,  and  a  heart  can  be 
broke  but  ance." 

For  the  first  time  in  his  presence  her  bravery  forsook 
her.  She  sat  down  beside  him,  her  face  all  pale  and  drawn 
with  pain.  He  relented,  and  pointing  to  Andrew's  picture 
on  the  wall,  said  that  she  should  have  it  .soon,  together 
with  the  letters  written  from  that  far  country. 

"He  wad  hae  bin  a  great  man,  Andy,  wa.sna  it  that, 
wasna  it  that,  ye  ken  !  "  he  said,  forgetting,  as  he  came 
to  the  end  of  the  long  travel,  Shakespeare's  English,  of 
which  he  had  lx;en  so  proud. 

"  I'll  no  set  een  on  him  again  ;  for  it's  far  to  yon 
country,  and  I'm  awa',  I'm  awa',  the  noo.  It  isna 
caulder  there  than  here  the  day.  Ay,  but  it'  awfu' 
cauid,  it's  awfu'  cauld  i'  Braithen.  Lass,  it's  eedfu' 
cauld." 

Yet  it  *vas  a  summer  night,  and  by  that  she  icw  that 
the  end  was  near.  But  he  demanded  again  t'  letter  he 
had  written  to  Andrew,  and  fiuill  and  ink ;  ai  1  with  icy 
fingers  he  wrote  something  more  ui)on  it,  then  sealed  it, 
and  gave  it  to  Jean,  sending  her  off  to  the  post  w  ith  it  at 
once.     He  watched  shivering  till  she  returned  ;  and  as  she 


f   A 


m 


\  'f- 


i 


lllli  11 11 


ii'i 

m 

82                     ru/-:  cinr.h-  factor. 

• 

« 

entered  the  door  he  turned  his  head  to  her,  and  his  dim 

eyes  looked  out  on   her  from   an  immeasurable  distance. 

'1 


» 


He  was  seeing  her  through  the  infuiite  glass  that  stretches 
l)etween  This  and  That.  "Ay,  lassie,"  he  said  at  last, 
"  that's  a  gran' man.  .  .  .  It's  awfu' cauld.  .  .  . 
We're  awa' — to  the  richt." 

And  she  had  taken  the  portrait  and  the  letters,  and  had 
carried  them  to  the  Castle.  And  she  read  the  letters 
through  and  through,  but  she  found  that  her  name  was 
never  mentioned,  nor  yet  Bruce's  nor  Brian's.  He  seemed 
to  have  cut  himself  off  from  them  utterly.  Nor  did  Bruce 
come  to  know  through  Jean  of  the  Dominie's  death,  and 
of  Andrew's  wherealwuts  ;  for  her  letter  telling  of  these 
things  never  rca(  hed  Bruce ;  and  Brian,  of  course,  was  less 
likely  to  know  than  Bruce.  Only  a  chance  meeting  would 
give  Biian  knowledge  regarding  Andrew. 

As  jean  sat  with  all  these  letters  before  her,  musing,  her 
thotiglits  first  and  last  were  with  Brian.  Though  through 
him  had  come  much  of  her  misery  and  the  harm  to  her 
good  name,  she  could  not  hate  him.  It  was  only  when 
the  scene  on  the  fair  ground  came  before  her,  and  she  felt 
again  his  arm  round  her,  and  his  li|)s  touch  hers — \\\^  wet 
with  wine  ! — uat  she  shuddered  and  shrank  away  from 
memory  of  him.  It  w:u>  a  little  drama  that  had  l)een  en- 
acted many  times  these  eight  years  ;  and  it  always  ended 
as  it  did  now,  by  the  letters  l)eing  reverently  kissed,  and 
put  away  behind  a  secret  panel  in  the  room. 

Presently  she  heard  a  knock,  and  the  one  evidently  that 
she  expected.  She  hurried  down  to  the  great  door  and 
admitted  Benoni,  who  took  her  hands  as  the  moonlight 
ranged  through  upon  them,  and  said:  "  What,  lass  Jean, 
glad  to  see  old  Benoni  again  ?  " 


rill:   SI. A  XT  OF   rilK    YEARS. 


83 


(( 


I  never  forget,"  she  replied,  closing  the  door  and  turn- 
ing to  go  up-stairs  with  him. 

•'  Tm  not  sure  that  remembrance  is  always  a  virtue," 
he  rejoined  meaningly,  shaking  back  his  hair,  very  grey 
now. 

When  once  inside  the  room,  the  showman  drew  the  girl 
Ibrwud  to  the  light.  "  I  must  have  a  good  look  at  you," 
lie  said;  ••  to  sec  what  the  last  six  months  have  done  to 
you." 

He  scrutinised  her  playfully,  and  yet  with  a  kind  of  wist- 
fulness  too,  and  then  shook  l)oth  her  hands  heartily,  and, 
laughing,  asked  her  if  her  scones  were  as  fresh  as  her  cheeks. 

She  bustled  alx)ut  to  get  him  some  sup|x;r.  He  watched 
her  silent,  admiring  ;  with  a  look,  too,  of  debate,  kindli- 
ness, yearning.  If  ever  fatherliness  looked  out  of  a  man's 
eyes  it  did  from  his. 

•*  Lassie,"  he  said,  "  what  makes  you  so  ki  '1  *o  a  vag- 
rom  old  showman  like  me?  " 

"  I'm  afraid  1  never  thocht  o'  that.  Wc  dinna  reason 
nuich  why  we  Uke  or  dislike.  I  sup))osc  it  is  queer  your 
only  lieing  a  showman,  but  I  think" — here  she  paused, 
and  gravely  looked  at  him — "  I  ken  that  ye  maun  hae  had 
a  different  position  ance.  Just  as  I  always  was  certain, 
even  afore  father  told  me " 

9 

"What  did  John  Fordie  tell  you?"  interrupted  the 
shov/man  a  littio  sharply,  and  his  fare  flushing  slightly. 

"That  )Ou  were  no  an  Italian,  and  that  you  were  a 
vcrradistanr  relation  o'  oors — that's  a'  !  " 

"That's  all,"  rei)eated  Benoni  musingly;  "ay,  that's 
all!" 

"  But  I  can't  help  thinking " 

"  Jein  Fordie,"  interposed  the  other  very  gently  and 


^  9 


■A 


THE   Cim.F   l'AC/'Oh\ 


'•'^f 


solemnly,  "  I  know  you  think  more  than  you  say  ;  but 
don't  ask  me  any  (lucstions  now,  and  I'll  toll  you  one  day, 
jH-'rhaps,  (\ho  Henoni  is,  what  he  is,  and  '.vhy  he  is." 

••  I  want  to  siiy,  Henoni,"  the  girl  rejoined,  her  fingors 
falling  lightly  on  his  sleeve,  •*  that  even  as  a  showman  you, 
who  could  do  so  many  great  things  weel,  mak'  mony  ikjo- 
ple  happy  by  your  goodness." 

♦•  As  for  making  people  happy,  or  trying  to  do  so,  (lod 
gives  the  poor  sometimes,  when  he  grants  nought  else,  two 
other  things — humour  and  a  contented  heart ;  and  1  think 
1  have  lH)th  now,  Jean,  save  in  one  thing." 

••  And  what  is  that  ae  thing  ?  " 

"  The  thing  that  troubles  you,"  and  the  old  man's  voire 
was  cadenced  to  a  wonderful  gentleness. 

**  Am  I  troubled  ?  "  was  her  timid  reply. 

*•  Vou  have  a  brother  in  a  country  fiir  away;  and  two 
other — friends." 

"Two  other  friends!  What  do  you  mean,  Henoni  ?  " 
She  was  struggling  for  composure. 

"  Two  others,  as  I  said.  You  never  told  mc  where  An- 
drew's letters  to  the  Dominie  came  from  ;  but  I  know  now 
where  A'enlaw  is,  I  have  seen  the  Hudson's  Hay  officer 
again — the  man  who  heljied  your  brother  away." 

"  Henoni,"  she  urged  now  a  little  piteously,  •'  d'ye  ken 
on y thing  o'  them  ?  I  haena  heard  frae  Hruce  for  twa 
years,  as  you  know." 

♦'  I  know  nothing  at  all  of  them,  save  that  the  three  went 
there,  and  they  should  he  here." 

•'Are  the  three  of  the^i^  needed?"  rejoined  the  girl  a 
little  dryly. 

'*  Two  at  least  should  l)e  here,  and  the  brother,  if  it  were 
safe." 


THE  SLANT  Ol'  Tllli    YliAKS. 


85 


\  man's  void' 


••  I  do  not  nndcrsland  you."  This  almost  in  a  vvhisjwr. 
Thf  old  man  did  no*  immediately  reply.  He  sat  down 
lo  the  supper  that  had  l)een  prepared  for  hini,  and  l)ej^an 
filling,  before  he  said  :  ••  When  two  men  wrong  a  woman, 
ami  go  away,  they  should  ImhIi  come  back  and  right  the 
w«»man,  if  it  cost  them  their  lives  and  fortunes." 

Jean  looked  at  the  showman  steadily  for  a  moment ;  then 
she  glided  over  to  him,  and  with  almost  a  weird  pathos  to 
her  tones,  said :  ''Jienoni,  dae  ye  think  they  will  ever 
come— ony  o'  them  ?  " 

'I'here  wiis  a  long  pause.  Henoni  ceased  eating.  He 
turned  upon  her  till  her  eyes  ran  direct  with  his.  •'  If  they 
are  alive,"  he  replied,  **  they  shall  come  back." 

♦*  They  shall  come  back  ?  "  she  (piestioned  musingly,  her 
eyes  now  a|)parently  engaged  with  the  faded  velvet  of  his  coat. 

'•They  shall  come  back,"  res|)onded  the  other  more 
lightly  now,  and  as  if  a  determination  had  gone  into  h'S- 
lory,  "  for  there's  many  a  worse  place  than  Scotland  ;  and 
there's  not  a  better  lass  in  all  (Jod's  earth  than  one  I  know 
at  Cowrie  Castle." 

A  long  breath  pas.sed  from  the  girl's  lijw,  as  though  the 
pain  of  years  had  found  a  moment's  ease,  and  had  gone  out 
from  her  into  a  comforting  world.  Then  Ixnh  Injcame 
silent.  When  he  had  finished  eating,  the  showman  rose, 
drew  his  lliite  from  his  pockeC,  took  his  accustomed  seat  at 
tiic  hearthstone,  and  l)egan  to  play.  Jean  had  never  heard 
Inin  play  as  he  did  that  night:  for  he  appeared  to  havt 
taught  a  melody  from  some  Titania  and  C)l)eron  of  a  new 
Miiisumnwr  Ni^ht^ s  Dream.  The  gayest  fantasies  shook 
tiirough  the  melody.  The  dark  walls  of  Cowrie  Castle 
stretched  away  to  interminable,  delightful  woods,  and 
bright  beings  of  joy  danced  on  the  greensward.      Then 


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86 


THE   CiriEF  FACTOR, 


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through  the  exquiiite  riot  she  heard  a  long  low  note  run 
and  rise  and  rise  till  :t  became  high  and  sweet  and  cold  like 
a  bugle  call,  and  go  swimming  away  into  the  distance,  till 
the  shadows  of  the  music  ran  back  and  forth  in  the  sky  like 
the  Aurora  Borealis.  While  they  flickered  there  Benoni 
paused,  and  said  with  a  peculiar  smile,  ''  1  was  calling  them 
back,  my  dear,  from  the  high  shoulders  of  the  world." 

Then  he  poured  out  another  intrepid  and  penetrating 
melody,  so  personal,  so  immediate,  that  the  girl  leaned 
her  head  in  her  arms  at  the  table  and  sobljed  gently.  As 
if  the  old  man  was  determined  that  she  should  have  her 
hour  of  emotion  out,  the  notes  floated  into  the  homely 
sweetness  of  Loj^an  lyater ;  then  running  into  that  joyful 
call  again,  he  sent  it  far  away  till  it  Ijecame  a  mere  film 
of  sound,  and  so  pa.ssed. 

He  rose  and  stood  beside  the  girl.  "They shall  hear 
those  very  notes  one  day,  my  lass." 

She  shook  her  head  with  smiling  sadness.  "  How  shall 
that  be?"  she  asked. 

"  I  am  going  to  fetch  them."  The  showman  drew 
himself  up. 

"  You — are  going — to  fetch  them  !  "  She  was  incredu- 
lous. "  Ye' re  auld,  Benoni  ;  and  much  money  would  be 
needed.     Oh,  no  ;  you're  no  serious." 

"  But  I  am  quite  serious.  I  am  young  at  heart,  and," 
— here  he  smiled  in  a  singular,  playful  fashion — "and 
I  have  money." 

At  that  the  girl  believed  him,  and  she  caught  his  hand, 
and  kissed  it  impulsively.  Then  they  sat  down  and  talked 
long  and  earnestly  together,  but  were  roused  by  another 
knocking  at  the  castle  door.  Jean  knew  it  was  not  her 
father's  knock.     Benoni  went  below  and  admitted — Elsie  ! 


THE  SLANT  OF  TirK    VEAJiS. 


87 


l( 


Where  is  Jean  Fordie  ?  "  she  asked  in  low  excitement. 

Benoni  guessed  that  this  visit  had  sume  unusual  signiti* 
cance.  He  motioned  her  up  the  staircase.  When  Benoni 
showed  her  into  the  room,  he  would  have  turned  away 
and  left  them  alone;  but  Elsie  stopped  him.  "Stay 
here,"  she  said  ;  "what's  to  speak  is  best  afore  you,  for  to- 
morrow I  may  be  richt  sorry  I  tell't  it,  and  ye  shall  be 
witness." 

Then  she  turned  to  Jean.  "  I'm  goin'  back  tae  the 
mill,"  she  said.  '*  The  foreman  sends  me  word  that  it's 
through  you,  it's  dune.  Ye  hae  bin  guid  tae  me  and 
mine,  an'  I  hac  bin  ill  to  you  and  yours.  You  cared  for 
the  puir  daftie ;  an'  lang  syne  I  made  miickle  trouble  to 
you." 

Then  she  told  her  part  in  that  drama  of  Beltane  Fair, 
not  sparing  herself  m  any  particular. 

During  the  recital  Jean  stood  motionless,  with  flashing 
eyes.  Her  face  was  set  and  angry.  When  Elsie  had  fin- 
ished, she  said:  "What  made  you  do  it  ?  .  .  .  I 
never  did  you  ony  harm  ?  " 

"You  had  a*;  I  had  nocht,"  replied  the  other,  mo- 
rosely, for  the  look  in  Jean's  face  did  not  reward  her  con- 
fession with  gentleness.      "  I  hated  you.     Weel  ?  " 

Still  Jean  looked  as  if  she  could  not  understand.  "  Oh, 
sic  a  blind  thing  ye  are  !  "  cried  Elsie.  "You  had  An- 
drew frae  me  I  " 

Then  Jean  understood  fully.  She  drew  back  from  Elsie 
a  little  further,  as  though  to  see  the  situation  more  clearly. 
At  last  she  said,  with  amazed  and  troubl;;d  eyes:  "You 
were  dreedfu',  dreedfu',  Elsie  !  " 

Elsie  had  now  to  do  the  hardest  thing  possible  to  her 
nature.     She  took  a  step  forward  and  said  in  a  low  tone, 


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THE  CHIEF  FACTOR. 


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her  bold  beauty  all  humbled  before  the  wronged  girl  before 
her, — *'  Sae  sorry  am  I,  Jean  Fordie,  an'  ye  hae  bin  sic  a 
saint!" 

Still  Jean  did  not  speak.  The  whole  eight  years  of  her 
suffering  went  by  her  in  grave  procession.  She  seemed  to 
herself  very  old  :  as  if  she  had  passed  out  of  the  meridian 
of  youth  and  joy, — though,  Heaven  knows,  her  face  was 
young  and  comely  still — ^and  the  cause  of  it  all  was  before 
her.  *'  Oh,  Elsie,"  she  said,  with  a  weary  kind  of  indig- 
nation, "ye  were  wicked — wicked  !  " 

*' I  always  wanted  Andrew  Venlaw.  .  .  ,  I  was  born 
with  a  deevil.     That's  sae  !  " 

She  sat  down  in  a  chair,  folded  her  arms  before  her,  and 
sat  flushed  and  sulky  now. 

Jean  turned  and  caught  Benoni's  eye.  It  suggested 
nothing ;  but  it  turned  with  a  look  of  compassion  on  Elsie. 
Jean  went  over  and  laid  her  hand  on  Elsie's  shoulder. 
"  Elsie,"  she  said ;  '<  I  hae  naething  against  you.  That's 
over.  We  will — be  frien's.  .  .  .  Things  canna  be 
altered  noo. " 

Elsie  did  not  stir ;  she  did  not  look  up.  But  she  said 
slowly  :  "I  wadna  hae  gane  back  tae  the  millp.an't  wasna 
for  Pete.  ...  an  ye  were  sae  kind  tae  him  !  .  .  . 
I  hae  no  sperrit,  now.     Ye  can  dae  wi'  me  what  ye  wuU." 

Benoni  drew  away,  and  occupied  himself  with  his  flute. 
The  two  talked  in  a  low  voice,  first  hesitatingly,  then  freely. 
At  last  the  showman  heard  Elsie  say:  **  But  they'll  no 
come  back;  it  isna  ony  use." 

At  this,  Benoni  rose  and  came  over  to  the  girls.  "  To- 
morrow's the  merry-making."  he  said.  "  After  that  I'm 
going  to  Hudson's  Bay — to  bring  them  back." 


./\ 


CHAPTER  VI. 


COUNCILS    OF   WAR. 


A  flotilla  of  boats  was  proceeding  up  Red  River  to  the 
northern  lakes  which,  in  turn,  connect  with  Hudson's  Bay. 
Its  destination  was  Fort  Gabriel,  lying  at  the  north-west 
angle  from  Fort  Saviour  which  was  governed  by  Chief  Fac- 
tor Venlaw.  The  voyageurs  and  couriers  du  bois  in  these 
boats  were  well  armed.  This  seemed  necessary,  because 
of  peril  from  Indian  tribes.  It  had,  however,  another 
reason.  The  North  West  Company,  the  new  and  great 
rival  of  the  most  honourable  and  redoubtable  Hudson's 
Bay  Company,  was  sending  this  company  of  men  to  take 
and  hold  Fort  Gabriel,  a  disused  but  retained  post  of  the 
Hudson's  Bay  Company.  The  object  was  purely  aggres- 
sive— a  protest  against  the  claims  of  the  Hudson's  Bay 
Company  to  all  the  land  stretching  from  the  Great  Lakes 
to  the  North  Pole.  It  was  as  though  China  sent  a  battal- 
ion to  garrison  a  fort  in  Siberia,  and  held  it  as  disacknowl- 
edgement  of  Russia's  claims  to  the  country.  The  enterprise 
was  not  without  its  dangers,  and  certainly  not  without  its 
hardships.  It  was  late  summer  now,  and  they  must  arrive 
at  Fort  Gabriel  in  the  winter,  with  the  possibility  of  be- 
ing countermarched  and  intercepted  by  the  Hudson's  Bay 
Company,  if  the  object  of  the  expedition  should  be  dis- 
covered. But  the  North  West  Company  had  done  more. 
It  had  sent  couriers  to  certain  tribes  of  Indians  in  the  north 


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i  '!    ■ . 

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7W^  CHIEF  FACTOR, 


and  west,  promising  much,  and  inciting  them  to  war  with 
the  Hudson's  Bay  Company.  It  was  thought,  if  the  cap- 
ture of  the  fort  and  the  uprising  of  the  Indians  succeeded, 
that  a  crippling  blow  would  be  struck  at  the  great  Com- 
pany; so  that  even  if,  as  had  been  rumoured,  a  regiment 
was  sent  out  from  England  to  sustain  the  original  adven- 
turers and  traders,  much  would  be  done  beforehand  to 
depreciate  their  influence  and  claims. 

As  this  flotilla  proceeded  northwards,  it  could  be  seen 
that  the  members  of  the  expedition  were  not  taking  the 
matter  with  desperate  seriousness.  They  were  hardy  men, 
if  not  of  great  stature,  chiefly  French  half-breeds,  swarthy, 
fancifully  dressed,  with  rings  in  their  ears,  Hke  gipsies,  and 
singing  much  as  they  journeyed.  Time  after  time  these 
choruses  could  be  heard  echoing  through  the  lofty  unde- 
spoiled  woods,  startling  the  elk  and  the  bear  from  their 
resting-places,  and  inviting  the  '^\idi  yawp  of  wolves  in  the 
moonlight.     Among  many  this  was  most  frequent : — 

**I1  y  a  longtemps  que  je  I'aime, 
Jamais  je  ne  t'oublierais." 

Once,  in  the  early  morning,  as  they  rowed  gaily  away 
to  the  lilt  of  the  black-bird's  song,  themselves  singing  the 
famous — 

'^  **  Sur  la  feui'Je  ron — don — don — don,       -_ 

Sur  la  joli',  joli'  feuille  ronde," 

the  rear-most  voyageurs  were  astonished  to  hear  the  refrain 
caught  up  distinctly  by  some  one  playing  an  instrument  in 
the  thick  woods  upon  the  bank.  They  were,  however, 
going  swiftly,  there  were  reasons  why  they  should  not 
unnecessarily  encounter  (possibly)  a  detachment  of  Hud- 


COUNCILS  OF   WAR. 


91 


son's  Bay  Company  men,  and  they  left  the  music  rapidly 
behind  them.  The  leader  of  this  expedition  had,  however, 
caught  the  faint  echo  of  this  music,  and  for  an  instant  a 
strange,  suggestive  smile  played  upon  his  face;  then  it 
changed  to  incredulous  amusement,  and  he  shook  his  head 
at  himself.  *'  Faith,  it  was  uncommon  like  the  old  show- 
man's flute.  A  trick  of  the  fancy  though ;  and,  bedad, 
flutes  are  more  or  less  alike,  for  that  matter  !  " 

It  was  Brian  Kingley,  late  of  the  Hudson's  Bay  Com- 
pany ;  at  present,  of  the  North  West  Company.  Brian's 
record  with  the  company  under  whom  he  first  adventured 
had  been  creditable  up  to  a  certain  point.  Then  separa- 
tion from  Bruce  came,  then  loneliness  of  a  sombre  kind  to 
an  impressionable  vivacious  nature  like  his :  for  though  he 
might  have  done  as  some  of  the  Hudson's  Bay  Company — 
spent  evil  days  with  Indian  women — he  did  not.  He  was 
beginning  to  live  with  a  memory,  and  that  is  a  most  whole- 
some thing  when  it  concerns  a  good  woman.  But  the  soli- 
tariness of  one  winter  overcame  him,  so  that  he  fell  a  victim 
to  the  rum  stored  in  the  fort.  His  case  came  to  the  Gov- 
ernor. Before  it  was  decided  he  resigned.  He  made  a 
journey  to  see  Bruce,  but  the  latter  had  been  ordered  to 
another  post,  and  he  missed  him.  Then  he  went  south, 
made  his  way  slowly,  soberly,  to  Montreal,  and  became  an 
officer  of  the  North  West  Company,  rising  out  of  all  prece- 
dent, and  now  chosen  for  this  hazardous  and  important 
task.  He  conquered  his  weakness ;  he  started  anew ;  he 
was  proving  himself  worthy  of  a  worthy  memory.  He  had 
the  faculty  for  getting  the  utmost  out  of  his  men,  with  the 
least  expenditure  of  effort  and  command.  True,  he  had 
been  known  to  knock  down  a  recalcitrant  half-breed,  but 
that  was  neither  injurious  to  his  reputation  nor  his  influ- 


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! 


Iliii; 


92 


TBE   CHIEF  FACTOR. 


ence.  They  had  no  hardships  which  he  did  not  share ; 
his  food — simple  enough  in  most  cases — was  their  food  ; 
and  he  had  been  known  to  give  the  last  cubic  inch  of  his 
pemmican  to  a  starving  Indian.  His  heart  was  not  entirely 
in  this  enterprise ;  still,  he  believed,  as  became  an  officer 
on  duty,  that  the  Hudson's  Bay  Company  claimed  too 
much,  and  that  the  North  West  Company,  or  any  other 
company,  should  be  free  to  trade  in  all  the  lands  of  the 
north.  He  did  not  relish  the  enterprise,  because  he  had 
once  been  an  officer — a  not  unimpeachable  officer — of  the 
Hudson's  Bay  Company.  But  the  strain  of  adventurous 
blood  was  strong  in  his  veins,  and  he  enjoyed  the  excite- 
ment and  hazard  of  the  affair.  So  he  kept  his  men  en- 
couraged and  nerved  to  the  expedition  by  his  own  activity 
and  cheerfulness  .     .     .  and  they  travelled  on. 

Another  expedition  from  Montreal  had  preceded  his. 
Its  leader  was  a  grey-haired  man  with  a  foreign  name, 
who,  however,  spoke  English  fluently,  and  from  the  chief 
agent  of  the  Hudson's  Bay  Company  in  Montreal  had  got 
accurate  information  regarding  two  officers  of  the  company 
— a  third,  he  learned,  had  joined  the  rival  company,  but 
his  whereabouts  he  could  not  discover.  He  travelled  west- 
ward with  a  small  company  of  voyageurs  of  the  Hudson's 
Bay  Company,  but  left  them  at  a  certain  point  on  the  Red 
River,  and,  thenceforward,  travelled  with  a  half-breed  and 
an  Indian  whom  he  paid  to  accompany  him.  The  flotilla 
commanc'  3d  by  Brian  Kingley  passed  him  one  morning,  as 
he  lay  helpless  in  his  tent  from  an  injured  leg,  and  as  both 
the  Indian  and  the  half-breed  were  away  hunting  at  the 
time,  he  could  give  a  sign  of  his  existence  only  by  the  call 
from  his  flute.  But,  as  we  know,  the  flotilla  passed  on 
.     .     .     and  so  is  fate  ironical  sometimes. 


lit" 


.V- 


COUNCILS   OF   WAR, 


93 


As  we  have  hinted  elsewhere,  Bruce  and  Brian  did  not 
know  of  Andrew's  presence  in  the  country ;  and  if  the 
name  of  the  chief  factor  at  Fort  Saviour — known  by  the 
Indians  and  half-breeds  as  Ironheart — reached  them  in 
later  years,  they  did  not  associate  it  with  the  ambitious 
youth  of  Braithen.  But  it  was  he.  Venlaw  had  risen  by 
stages  extraordinary  to  the  position  of  Chief  Factor,  partly 
by  reason  of  his  unusual  influence  upon  the  Indians,  be- 
cause he  had  impressed  himself  upon  the  Governor,  on  a 
visit  the  latter  had  paid  to  the  most  northern  posts  and 
forts,  and  lastly,  because  he  was  a  substantial  success  in 
everything  that  he  attempted.  Fortune  seemed  always  to 
be  with  him.  His  enemies  as  his  friends  were  given  over 
into  his  hands.  That  is,  where  his  friends — or  confreres, 
rather,  for  he  had  no  friends,  strictly  speaking — missed 
good-luck,  it  came  beseechingly  to  his  hands.  The  furs 
he  sent  from  Fort  Saviour  were  double  those  sent  from  any 
other  trading-post  in  the  north.  He  feared  nothing ;  he 
bent  to  nothing ;  he  challenged  everything,  but  without 
bravado.  If  he  was  not  absolutely  loved,  he  was  entirely 
respected,  and  always  and  in  everything  obeyed.  His  ad- 
vice had  great  influence  with  the  Council  of  the  Company. 
The  only  time  it  went  for  nothing  was  when  he  suggested 
the  retention  of  Brian  Kingley  in  the  service.  (He  knew 
of  Kingley' s  presence  in  the  North  :  but  Kingley  knew 
nothing  of  him.)  This  the  Council  could  not  understand, 
for  Venlaw  was,  generally  speaking,  a  rigid  disciplinarian. 
However,  on  the  emphatic  protest  of  Mr.  Ashley  Moore, 
their  trusted  agent,  who  arrived  subsequent  to  the  occur- 
rence, they  offered  to  reinstate  Brian ;  but  this  Brian  re- 
fused. 

It  was  Ironheart  who,  when  a  certain  tribe  were  threat- 


i 


)    ':■■% 
1        'Jl 


94 


THE   CHIEF  FACTOR. 


!'|i'|i 


.|ii 


1  ' 
It' 

1-- : 

cning,  used  all  instant  means  to  conciliation,  making,  at 
the  same  time,  preparations  for  a  struggle,  and,  failing 
placable  negotiations,  administered  a  prompt  and  crushing 
punishment,  himself  leading  his  handful  of  men  excellently 
armed.  He  brought  back  the  chief  to  the  fort,  treated 
him  well  but  firmly,  secured  terms  of  peace  on  behalf  of 
his  tribe,  and  gained  their  alliance  and  powerful  advocacy 
in  dealing  with  other  tribes.  The  Indians  of  the  Sun 
Rock,  with  their  chief.  Eagle  Cry,  he  had  also  placated, 
and  these  had  made  their  village  not  far  from  Fort  Sav- 
iour. 

Bruce's  promotion,  Venlaw  had  from  a  distance  secret- 
ly and  not  unsuccessfully  urged  on  occasion.  Brian  he 
watched  ;  that  was  all.  It  was  declared  in  the  Hudson's 
Bay  country  that  this  chief  factor  was  a  good  waiter,  and 
there  is  a  saying  in  the  land  to-day,  which  was  current  in 
his  time,  concerning  his  masterful  perseverance,  his  sober 
''staying"  power,  and  his  strength.  It  runs:  "As  the 
clinch  o'  Venlaw."  He  was  absolute  in  his  determination 
that  every  man  should  do  his  duty ;  he  was  tireless  him- 
self. Unlike  many  of  the  factors  he  had  not  taken  a  wife 
from  among  the  Indian  women,  nor  had  he,  as  others  had 
done,  sent  to  England  for  a  wife,  and  received  her,  in- 
voiced, maybe,  like  any  other  careful  cargo.  He  was  very 
stern  also  with  his  subordinates  regarding  their  relations 
with  the  heathen  women.  Yet  while  in  most  matters  per- 
spicuous, he  failed  to  see  what  every  one  else  at  the  fort 
saw,  that  Summer  Hair,  the  daughter  of  Eagle  Cry,  re- 
garded him  with  an  admiring  eye.  Had  he  been  told  of 
the  fact  he  would  probably  have  been  incredulous,  for  he 
was  not  a  vain  man.  Besides,  it  would  have  caused  him 
gome  anxiety,  for  the  matter  would  have  its  difficulties. 


id: 

:l! 


,  f 


COUNCILS  OF   WAR, 


91 


The  Chief  Factor  would  have  been  surprised  had  he 
been  told  that  he  nourished  vengeance ;  he  would  have 
(ailed  it  justice.  To  most  of  the  world  his  disposition  was 
kind,  but  to  two  people  he  had  a  constant  hardening  of 
Iieart.  One  of  them  was  lirian  Kingley,  the  other  was 
i'jsie  Garvan.  We  are  inclined  to  cherish  dislike,  not 
only  against  the  criminal  who  wrongs  us,  but  against  the 
informer  also.  He  had  actually  tried  to  do  Urian  a  good 
turn,  but  the  exact  motives  would  be  hard  to  trace.  Per- 
haps he  hoped  to  get  him  into  his  power  if  he  remained 
with  the  Company,  and  some  day  might  be  able  to  strike 
him  a  terrible  blow.  As  it  was,  he  was  sure  that  Heaven 
would  give  the  man  into  his  hands.  And  he  would  punish, 
as  was  granted  to  him,  firmly,  unimpulsively,  thoroughly. 
Piis  view  of  life  was  justice — unquenchable,  unchangeable, 
unyielding ;  he  loved  justice,  maybe,  more  than  mercy. 
He  was  prepared  to  endure  whatever  came  to  him  through 
his  own  fault,  he  was  sure  that  others  should  do  the  same. 
He  did  not  give  himself  credit  for  any  genial  softness  of  nat- 
ure ;  he  thought  himself  more  inflexible  than  he  really  was. 

After  nine  years  of  waiting,  he  knew  that  the  beginning 
of  his  reckoning  with  the  past  had  come.  For,  one  day, 
there  came  across  the  country  from  the  Saskatchewan  valley 
to  Fort  Saviour  a  man  who  bore  messages  concerning  an 
uprising  among  the  Indians — the  uprising  projected  by  the 
North  West  Company,  who  had  not  acted  as  secretly  as 
they  had  hoped  to  do.  This  man  came  to  the  fort  with 
only  a  handful  of  his  followers,  having  made  a  perilous 
journey  through  cold  and  ambush.  When  he  and  his  men 
arrived  he  was  ushered  into  the  fort  greatly  exhausted,  and 
subsequently  was  brought  to  the  Chief  Factor,  for  whom 
were  his  messages.     When  he  entered  the  room  the  Factor 


96 


THE   C/rrFF  FACTOR, 


w 


was  giving  some  instructions  to  his  clerk,  and  did  not  look 
up  at  once.  Presently  the  new-comer,  with  a  start  and 
exclamation,  took  a  step  forward.  Then  the  Factor  turned 
and  saw  the  astonished  face  of  Bruce  Fordie  I 

The  Factor  was  not  so  surprised  as  his  visitor,  though  ho 
had  not  suspected  who  it  was.  Although  Bruce  bore  com- 
munications to  Chief  Factor  Venlaw,  he  had  no  thought 
that  it  might  be  Andrew,  for  the  name  was  not  an  un 
familiar  one  among  Scotsmen,  and  the  Hudson's  Bay  Com- 
pany was  honoured  by  the  presence  of  many  of  that  nation- 
ality. 

"Andrew  Venlaw!"  said  Bruce,  when  he  could  speak 
free  from  amazement.  The  Chief  Factor  motioned  his 
clerk  from  the  room. 

"I  did  not  expect  to  see  you,  Bruce  Foj;die,  though  I 
knew  that  we  should  meet  one  day,"  he  said.  His  eyes 
ranged  steadily  to  those  of  his  visitor,  and  not  without  a 
sturdy  cordiality,  for  did  he  not  look  into  eyes  like  those 
of  the  one  woman  ? though  ! 

"  What  brought  you  here,  Andrew  ?  " 

Venlaw  laid  his  hand  on  the  other's  shoulder.  "  There 
are  two  kinds  of  exiles,  Fordie :  those  who  do  wrong  and 
those  who  are  wronged  :  both  are  here. ' 

They  sat  dowr. 

"Who  wronged  you,  Venlaw?"     This,  in  itself,  wasa| 
somewhat  direct  compliment,  though  it  was  Fordie's  spon- 
taneous thought. 

"I'll  bring  you  face  to  face  with  him  one  day,  Fordie, 
.     .     .     But  now  there's  business  to  do  first.     What  brings  I 
you  here?  "     He  drew  himself  together  as  though  he  had| 
shaken  off,  for  a  moment,  some  unpleasant  thought. 

"  News  for  the  Chief  Factor." 


n 


f^ 


'tl 


COUNCILS  OF   IV AH, 


97 


"Well?     .     .     .     Let  me  have  it." 

iirijce  had  almost  forgotten  that  the  Chief  Factor  was  be- 
fore him  ;  he  had  only  been  talking  to  Andrew  Venlaw,  his 
old  fellow-citizen.  But  the  officer  in  him  reasserted  itself 
immediately,  and  he  gave  to  Venlaw  his  letters  and  such 
verbal  information  regarding  the  uprising  as  was  not  in 
tliem.  His  most  important  verbal  information  was  got  en 
route  through  a  deserter  from  JJrian  Kingley's  detachment, 
who  had  been  punished  for  insubordination,  and  had,  on 
tiie  first  opportunity,  thrown  in  his  lot  with  a  straying  band 
of  Indians.  It  related  to  the  capture  and  garrisoning  of 
Fort  Gabriel. 

•'And  you'll  be  surprised  and  sorry  enough,  I  know," 
said  Bruce,  "when  I  tell  you  that  the  leader  of  this  ex- 
pedition is  our  old  comrade,  Brian  Kingley." 

Venlaw  started  to  his  feet.  A  singular  look  came  over 
his  face,  a  smile  at  once  meaning  and  bitter.  "It  is  Brian 
Kingley,  is  it  ?  "  he  said.  Then,  looking  Bruce  in  the  eyes 
with  a  flash  of  irony,  he  continued:  "You  and  I  will  be 
glad  of  this,  Fordie  !  " 

"Indeed,  I  don't  see  that,  Venlaw — far  from  it.  For 
Kingley  was  the  best  friend  ever  I  had,  and  helped  me  at 
a  time  when  the  luck  was  black  against  me." 

"  Indeed  !  But  do  you  know,  man,  the  price  you  paid 
for  that  friendship?  You  got  your  life  and  freedom,  but 
there  are  things  more  than  life  and  freedom."  He  was 
gloomy  and  stern  now.  - 

"  I  know  the  price  I  paid,  though,  maybe,  by  your  looks, 
not  the  price  that's  in  your  mind.  I  know  that  when  he 
left  the  H.B.C.,  the  heart  went  out  of  me." 

"He  was  a  drunkard,  and  worse,"  rejoined  the  other 
sharply. 


r 


i 


V ,;« ' 


98 


THE   CfriEF  FACTOR, 


wV, 


"You  needn't  speak  so  bitter  of  my  friend,  Venlaw," 
replied  Bruce  nettled,  and,  unheeding  that  he  had  a  supc 
rior  officer  in  froht  of  him.  *•  You  always  had  a  particularly 
fine  record  with  the  dominie  and  the  kirk,  we  all  know, 
and  was  a  bit  jealous  and  overbearing  too.  Hut  Brian 
Kingley  never  did  you  any  harm,  so  why  should  you  speak 
so  of  one  that  came  from  the  same  burgh.  Irishman  though 
he  is?" 

Venlaw's  words  were  like  cold  steel  now.  "  Never- 
theless, 1  shall  be  glad  of  the  chance  to  fight  him,  and  su 
shall  you,  Fordie." 

♦*  So  shall  I  never  be.  I'd  cut  off  my  hand  first.  I'd  no 
more  march  against  Fort  Gabriel  than  against  the  grave  of 
my  mother."    • 

''In  God's  name,  hush,  you  fool!  "  cried  the  other, 
the  veins  starting  out  on  his  forehead.  "  What  you  think 
of  me  I  care  not,  for  I  know  you  thought  little  of  me  at 
any  time :  but  by  heaven  !  you  shall  not  mention  him 
and  your  mother  in  the  same  breath  of  kindness. ' ' 

**  You  talk  about  the  price  I  paid  for  Brian's  help  in  get- 
ting out  of  Scotland,  and  now  you  stop  me  again  when  I 
say  my  mind,"  replied  Bruce.  *' Well,  speak  out  like  a 
man,  Venlaw,  and  not  hint  through  the  dark.  And,  before 
you  do,  I'll  say  again  in  your  face  as  man  to  man  and  not 
as  a  junior  to  senior  officer,  that  I'd  leave  the  Company 
were  I  you,  before  I'd  draw  sword  upon  one  who  slept  be- 
tween the  same  hills,  and  had  days  of  youth  to  the  sound 
of  the  same  river.  And  as  for  me,  I'd  fight  with  him  be- 
fore I'd  fight  against  him.  And  there's  my  say,  if  it  isn't 
pleasant  to  you  nor  to  me,  meeting  after  a  run  of  years." 

Venlaw  was  very  hard  and  deliberate  now.  His  mood 
was  inexorable.     He  had  his  mind  clear.    He  was  right  he 


iiiii 


COUNCILS   OF    WAR, 


9g 


knew  ;  justice  was  right ;  revenge  was  right ;  retribution 
was  right.  He  said  cahiily  :  "  Fordie,  I've  much  to  tell 
you  about  this,  and  about  this  mar.  But  your  coming  was 
sudden,  and  1  am  not  ready  on  the  instant  to  say  all  that  is 
necessary.  You've  had  nothing  to  eat  since  you  came. 
Go  and  eat,  my  friend,  then  come  back  to  me  here,  and 
Nve  shall  talk  together  like  men.  If,  when  I've  had  my 
say,  you  still  retain  your  opinion  for  him  and  against  me, 
then,  I  swear  to  you,  neither  I  nor  my  mt;n  shall  fight  him. 
You  shall  judge  l^tween  us,  and  I  shall  judge  between 
you?" 

He  called  his  clerk,  and,  with  a  nod,  Fordie,  not  yet 
soothed,  turned  to  go.  But  he  paused  before  he  went,  and 
said  :  "  I'm  sorry  to  quarrel  with  you  at  all,  Andrew,  for 
I  canna  forget  that  we  hae  both  been  lads  in  a  bonnie  land 
lang  syne."  "  - 

Andrew,  in  reply,  only  said  in  the  same  homely  dialect : 
*' You  needna  forget  it,  Fordie,  and  you'll  know  soon  the 
difference  between  the  hand  o*  a  brither  Scot  and  brither 
townsman,  and  that  of  an  alien." 

Bruce  shook  his  head  gloomily  and  left  the  room. 

When  he  had  gone  Venlaw  sat  down  at  his  desk,  and 
took  out  a  packet  of  letters.  He  laid  them  on  the  desk 
before  him  and  looked  long  at  them.  At  last  he  took  one 
up  and  opened  it.  It  was  from  old  Dominie  Dryhope,  as 
were  they  all.  This  one  was  the  last  that  the  Dominie  had 
written  to  him.     And  the  body  of  it  ran  : — 


\  V. 


(< 


Ay,  laddie,  Scotland  is  a  cold  country.  But  it's 
colder  now  you're  gone.  There  are  many  men  and  women 
in  the  world,  but  you'll  find  as  you  get  more  in  years  that 
there  are  few  who  put  life  in  old  bones,  or  flourish  the 


%■ 


I  ';■ 


it       Ci 


100 


THE   CHIEF  FACTOR. 


M> 


i^^'iiii! 


if  .:l-' ^i«|,! 

"■■'HI 

liiil 

iii      ; 


I'a  liiili      !j| 

li'  ■''■■■'■It  li  '';""'■'" 


ilip::'iiii| 

!;H;l|l!lll,i|ll|!        |:i 


warmth  in  young  ones.  And  I'll  warrant  you  wish  I  was 
with  you  now,  old  as  I  am,  for  we  were  good  comrades 
one  time,  and  there  is  nothing  selfish  or  jealous  in  the  love 
of  an  old  man  who  is  done  with  vanities. 

**  All  that  you  have  written  of  grand  days  in  that  north 
country,  with  bullets  for  buffalo,  and  bear,  and  deer,  and 
some  sharp  play  with  the  arrows  and  tomahawks  of  cop- 
per-skins, I've  read  over  and  over  again ;  for  that's  what 
will  be  puttin'  mair  iron  intil  your  blude,  laddie.  Aye, 
you  ken,  I  fly  off  from  my  English  now  and  then  and  just 
take  to  the  bonnie  Scotch,  though  Shakespeare  was  a  gran' 
man,  forbye !  An'  the  huntin'  an'  the  fightin'  are  better 
than  takin*  the  fause  bosom  o'  a  woman  to  yours,  laddie. 
I  canna  blame  you  for  goin'  awa'  syr.e  she 
wreckit  your  life,  so  thot  ye  flingit  ambition  i'  the  dust — 
and  sic  a  grand  ambition  was  it !  But  it  hasna  been  the 
same  i'  Braithen,  whiles. 

**  An'  as  for  the  lass  hersel',  they  speak  ill  eneuch  of  her 
the  noo,  thot  turned  a  willin'  ear  to  the  tongue  of  that 
Irish  wabster,  wha  played  fause  a'  round,  baitin'  the 
brither  to  spoil  the  sister.  .  .  .  Aye,  man,  but  thot 
waur  the  deil's  trap. 

"  They'll  be  forgettin'  you  here,  Andy,  for  thot's  the 
way  o'  the  warld ;  all  but  the  old  Dominie,  that's  graspin' 
the  skirt  o'  life  wi'  a  shakin'  hand,  and  that'll  never  see 
you  again  i'  the  warld— never  mair  ! 

"I've  no  given  to  ony  body  where  you  are,  laddie,  as 
you  begged,  and  for  that  I'll  doubt  if  you'll  know  to  the 
day  when  I'm  awa'.  But  this'U  be  the  last  letter  I'll  be 
writin'  to  you.  For  the  auld  body  goes  quakin'  by  its 
grave  the  noo.  But  you'll  come  back,  Andy,  and  see  that 
my  wee  house  i'  the  kirkyard  isna  level  wi'  the  groun'. 


■/■■ 

V 


COUNCILS  OF   WAR. 


lOI 


And,  ye  ken,  if  they  havena  put  a  line  abune  the  stone, 
you'll  be  puttin'  there  i'  the  corner — *  For  His  mercy  en- 
dureth  forever.''  .  .  .  And  what  is  mine  o'  house 
and  land,  little  though  it  be,  is  yours  wi'  my  blessin'.  For 
I'll  leave  naething  to  the  bit  lasses  thot  ca'  theirsels  by 
my  name  i'  the  toon,  ilka  ane  o'  them  as  fause  as  a'  the 
kin  o'  woman  !  " 

To  this  letter  appeared  a  postscript,  written  weeks  later, 
the  occasion  of  which  we  know.  This  is  the  fashion  of 
it:— 

"  That  lass  o'  Fordie's  has  ben  here,  Andy,  day  in  day 
out,  as  I  keep  crumblin'  to  the  dust ;  and  though  I  spoke 
bit  harsh  to  her,  I  couldna  feel  but  kindly,  for  she  hae  the 
way  o'  gentleness  wi*  her ;  and  sic  beauty  has  she  still ! 
An',  maybe,  she  didna  go  sae  far  wrong. as  was  tellt  o'  her, 
for  that  Elsie's  a  jade,  Andy  !  .  .  .  And  you'll  no  deal 
wi'  the  man  till  you're  sure.  But  if  you  are  sure,  deal  wi' 
him  as  the  Lord  wi'  the  children  o'  Midian. 

"The  breath  o'  me  gaes  waly,  but  it  isna  sae  bad. 
.  .  .  Ay,  but  it's  comin"  like  sleep.  .  .  .  Blessed 
be  God.     .     .     .     !" 


fc  • ' 


The  Factor  sat  thinking  long.  Upon  the  small  window 
of  the  room  snow  was  beating.  He  stood  up  and  looked 
out.  Nothing  could  be  seen  except  the  wall  of  the  fort, 
and  an  occasional  figure,  wreathed  in  snow  like  a  ghost, 
passing  and  repassing  between.  Then  the  snow  deepened 
further,  and  there  was  nothing  but  a  white  curtain  hung 
between  him  and  the  world.  There  came  to  his  mind  a 
day  far  back,  when  he  had  started  to  bring  Jean  from  his 
father's  house  in  the  glen  to  the  Castle ;  and  a  storm  fell 


iii'^iiiiiiiii 

11!  PI  il 


lilllll 


;  ■,  I 


ii'i . 


:m 


'    '/lii 

1 

ml 

102 


T//E   CHIEF  FACTOR. 


suddenly,  growing  till  it  became  almost  a  blinding  sheet, 
and  they  were  near  to  dying,  for  they  lost  the  way.  But  he 
held  his  arm  about  her,  and  kept  her  as  warm  as  he  could, 
urging  her  passionately  and  successfully  to  keep  awake, 
and  not  give  up.  And  he  had  often  said  to  himself,  in 
thinking  upon  this,  that  had  she  been  less  brave  and  strong 
of  will  than  she  was,  she  had  been  seen  no  more  alive  in 
Braithen.  But  she  was  of  uncommon  quality,  and  together 
they  stumbled  into  Braithen,  horribly  numb  and  sick,  but 
were  brought  back  to  life  and  comfort  again.      ^  •  - 

He  shuddered  to  think  how  different  it  stood  in  his 
memory  now.  Once  it  was  part  of  her;  now  she  was 
only  part  of  it.  He  would  give  the  best  of  his  life  to  think 
of  her  without  pain,  as  he  used  to  do.  .  .  .  Through 
his  mind,  at  times,  there  ran  the  possibility  of  there  hav- 
ing been  some  mistake,  some  bitter  mistake.  But  then, 
that  scene  on  the  fair- ground,  when  she  did  not  rebuke 
Brian  by  so  much  as  a  look  even  !  No,  the  thing  was  all 
too  shamefully  clear.  Yet  he  had  no  anger  against  her ; 
he  had  only  inextinguishable  pain,  and  hatred  of  the  man 
who  had  wronged  her.  Perhaps  it  had  been  nobler  had  he 
stayed  in  Scotland ;  but  then  he  did  not  know  that  Brian 
was  coming  to  the  New  World,  and  he  merely  fled  from 
misery,  and  from  shame  and  fighting,  and  to  forget. 
.-  .  .  Still,  there  was  the  old  Dominie's  letter  even 
saying  a  good  word  for  her,  and  this  was  the  last  convert 
he  could  have  expected,  so  hard  had  he  always  been 
against  her.  .  .  .  But  no;  he  or  Bruce,  or  both, 
should  dig  the  truth  out  of  Brian's  body  soon.  He  would 
not  hesitate  to  make  the  Irishman  eat  the  bread  of  retri- 
bution and  the  sword. 

Presently  Bruce  entered.     His  face  was  troubled.     The 


'i 


COUNCILS   OF   WAR. 


103 


Factor's  words  had  rankled.  He  thought  they  might  have 
a  deeper  meaning  than  at  first  appeared  to  him. 

''  And  now,  Andrew  Venlaw,  I'm  ready  to  hear  all  you 
have  to  speak,"  he  said,  sitting  down  beside  the  table,  and 
folding  his  arms  on  it. 

"  As  I  said,"  slowly  spoke  the  Factor  ;  **  Brian  King- 
ley  is  your  enemy  and  mine.  When  he  was  helping  you 
from  Scotland  he  was  doing  you  (and  me)  harm — in  an- 
other way."         "  j„  :         '      '  -  -     : 

Bruce  made  a  gesture  of  impatience.  "  I  want  the  heart 
of  the  thing,"  he  interposed. 

Venlaw  drew  the  letter  from  his  pocket.  **  You'll  know 
the  man  who  wrote  this,  Bruce — the  Dominie.  He's  dead 
now.  He  was  a  good  friend  to  me.  Read  the  letter 
through  before  you  speak  to  me. ' '     And  he  handed  it  over. 

Bruce  read  the  letter  at  first  slowly.  Then,  suddenly,  a 
great  flush  sprang  to  his  face,'  and  he  devoured  the  re- 
mainder of  the  writing  with  staring  eyes  and  distressful 
features.  He  came  fiercely  to  his  feet,  and  the  letter 
dropped  from  his  fingers  upon  the  table.  His  hand 
clenched  the  hunter's  knife  in  hi*?  belt. 

*' Venlaw,"  he  said,  with  great  hardness  in  his  tone, 
*'  tell  me  all  you  have  to  say  of  my  sister  and  yourself, 
and  cf  that  man.  .  .  .  And  speak  no  word  but  what 
you  would  be  willing  to  say  at  God's  judgment ;  for  there 
are  big  accounts  to  settle,  and  stern  things  to  do." 

Both  standing,  scarcely  moving,  the  Factor  told  Bruce 
the  story  of  the  fair-ground. 

'*  He  did  that — drunk — before  them  all !  "  interrupted 
Bruce.  "  I  shall  rake  return  for  it  with  a  knife-point." 
Then,  after  a  moment,  shuddering,  *'  You  know  of  more, 
yourself  ? 


II 


'%; 


k     '.h 

«1: 


n 


I  I 


M'   'r;;! 


!il 


liiilliii 


104 


ri/E   CHIEF  FACTOR. 


Ijl^i:  1|i!j;|.:.;i! 


Venlaw  bowed  his  head. 

"What  you  have  seen  with  your  own  eyes?"  bitterly 
asked  the  bruised  and  vengeful  man. 

"  Yes,  God  help  me  !  with  my  own  eyes,"  answered  the 
Factor,  thinking  of  that  night  when  he  saw  Brian  enter 
the  castle,  and  the  embracing  figures  subsequently  upon 
the  blind.  He  sat  down  and  dropped  his  forehead  on  his 
clenched  fists. 

"  Don't  speak  it  then,  Venlaw;  don't  speak  it.  For  I 
know  you  loved  her,  and  what  you  say  is  wrung  from  you. 
It  would  be  knives  in  my  heart  to  hear  more." 

It  had  saved  them  both  much  suffering,  and  events  had 
marshalled  to  a  prompter,  happier  conclusion,  had  the  Fac- 
tor spoken  ;  for  Bruce  had  then  instantly  swept  away  that 
evidence  against  Jean.  From  such  slight  circumstances 
have  the  darkest  tragedies  of  the  world  been  spun.  In 
this  case,  however,  light,  not  darkness,  should  ultimately 
supervene. 

'<  Venlaw,"  continued  Bruce,  "this  man's  life  is  mine 
and  yours ;  but  mine  first.  I'll  go  with  you  to  Fort  Ga- 
briel." 

The  Factor  shook  his  head.  "  No,  you  cannot  do  that. 
Your  orders  were  to  return  to  Fort  Mary,  bearing  my  in- 
structions and  suggestions  on  the  campaign.  Duty  must 
be  done.  Fort  Gabriel  must  be  recaptured,  if  it  has  been 
taken,  and  the  Indians  of  the  White  Hand  must  be  de- 
feated by  means  of  a  conjunction  of  our  forces — but  the 
Fort  before  that !  " 

Bruce  paced  the  floor  excitedly.  "  It  is  my  duty  as  an 
officer  to  go  back  to  Fort  Mary,  but  there's  the  duty  of  a 
man  to  do." 

"  No,  Fordie,  you  must  go  back ;  for  there  are  lives  at 


f  1 


COUNCILS  OF   WAR. 


105 


stake.     Afterwards  you  can  settle  private  debts  like  these. 
There  will  come  a  time  !  " 

Suddenly  Bruce  wheeled,  and  with  hands  resting  on  the 
table  before  him,  and  eyes  steadying  to  the  other's,  said  : 
''  Venlaw,  the  man  must  die.  I  would  give  him  no  chance 
of  escape  at  all.  For,  as  much  as  a  man  once  was  your 
friend,  and  abused  that  friendship,  so  much  must  you  be 
his  enemy  and  punish. "  .       .* ,  ,:     . 

The  Factor  nodded. 

"  Well,  you  will  meet  him  at  Fort  Gabriel.  If  you  make 
him  prisoner,  or  he  gets  away,  he  may  escape  for  ever. 
Heavens  !  my  blood  boils  when  I  think  how  I  made  a  com- 
rade of  the  traitor — and  that  wickedness  in  him  all  the 
time  !  Then  this,  Andrew  Venlaw  : — I  lay  it  upon  you, 
as  solemn  as  the  words  of  a  dying  comrade — that  you  fight 
him  man  to  man  when  you  find  him,  and  kill  him.  .  .  . 
kill  him!" 

Venlaw  rose,  reached  out  his  hand  to  the  other,  and  with 
a  harsh  smile  and  an  inflexible  determination,  said:  **  I 
will  kill  him!" 


\% 


are  lives  at 


''i,Vi;i:!l 


'  1! 


'lii^iiiil 


lliiiiiif 


r  ii.ii; 


me^' 


^L!:.1 


I      I 

■I    -i 


•^      CHAPTER   VII. 

-        A   COURIER   OF   SAFETY.  -    ^ 

The  Factor  and  Bruce  Fordie  had  arranged  for  the  settle- 
ment of  a  private  wrong,  but  there  were  public  wrongs  to 
circumvent.  To  these  the  Factor  bent  his  mind.  Soon 
after  his  notable  interview  with  Bruce,  he  set  forth  upon  a 
solitary  mission  to  Eagle  Cry  and  his  Indians.  It  was 
necessary,  in  any  trouble  with  the  Indians  of  the  White 
Hand,  that  these  should  be  with  him  in  friendly  compact, 
if  not  as  actual  fighting  allies.  Yet  he  had  a  shrewd  sus- 
picion that  they  would  be  receiving  emissaries  from  the  hos- 
tile tribes  or  the  North  West  Company,  and  his  influence 
must  immediately  be  thrown  into  the  scale.  It  was  his 
way  to  grapple  with  difficulties  alone.  That  was  what 
made  his  counsel  of  value  to  the  Company  so  often :  why 
the  Factor  of  Fort  Mary  sent  to  him  now,  requesting  him 
to  arrange  the  plan  of  action,  while  he  and  his  people  would 
follow  and  coincide  to  the  best  of  their  ability. 

These  difficulties  always  nerved  Venlaw.  His  brain  was 
not  swift,  but  when  it  was  roused  it  was  massive,  and 
worked  massively.  The  influence  of  the  north  had  devel- 
oped all  the  latent  power  in  him ;  he  himself  never  saw 
anything  inappropriate  in  his  alternative  name  Ironheart. 
He  smiled  at  it  a  little  grimly ;  that  was  all.  Then  he 
thought  as  few  men  placed  in  his  position  in  these  cold 
regions  did.     The  north  had  not  dulled  his  mental  activity, 


A    COURIER   OF  SAFETY. 


107 


but  enlarged  it,  made  it  tenacious.  It  is  awesome  to  a 
mind  of  any  depth,  to  live  alone  much  where  Nature  is  im- 
mense and  terrible.  It  takes  on  greatly  of  her  grim  force 
as  of  her  huge  joy.  A  man  in  the  stupendous  North  either 
becomes  a  pigmy  or  a  worm  unregardable,  a  giant  or  com- 
panion of  the  great  giant,  or  a  mere  track  upon  the  snows, 
to  be  covered  immediately  by  .  another  snow.  A  man 
should  bulk  according  to  the  greatness  of  the  lever  which 
he  grasps. 

Venlaw  was  as  much  a  part  of  the  Arctic  regions  as  if 
he  had  been  born  with  them  and  grown  with  them  since 
they  rose  out  of  fire  and  chaos.  His  God  was  the  God  of 
the  wanderers  in  the  desert  of  Sin ;  magnificent,  personal, 
inflexibly  just.  Venlaw  had  been  slow  to  anger.  He  had 
been  in  no  hurry  for  vengeance.  It  is  in  hot  lands  where 
passion  is  violent — and  grotesque. 

As  he  walked  away  across  the  plains,  on  which  snow 
was  still  falling  shghtly,  his  mind,  after  thinking  hard  upon 
the  event  wished  for  at  Fort  Gabriel,  gave  itself  up  solely 
to  the  question  of  Eagle  Cry  and  his  intended  interview. 
He  scarcely  knew  what  was  going  on  around  him  ;  he  kept 
his  way  mechanically.  He  came  to  the  outskirts  of  pine 
woods.  This  interrupted  his  thoughts.  He  looked  up. 
The  sun  was  nov/  shining  brightly.  He  leaned  against  a 
tree  and  glanced  back  along  the  way  he  had  come.  Far 
on  the  edge  of  the  plain  was  the  Fort,  a  solemn  spot  in  the 
horizon.  He  was  roused  by  the  light  pad  of  snow-shoes 
behind  him.  He  turned  and  saw  a  pair  of  large  brown 
eyes  looking  into  his,  out  of  a  tawny  face  which  glowed 
also  with  the  most  delicate  under-hue  of  red.  They  be- 
longed to  an  Indian  girl,  not  beautiful  as  white  women 
reckon  beauty,  but  with  amazing  grace  and  lissomness,  and 


4i 


i»fl 


i'l     i 


i3' 


ft) 


*1 

»       -111 


io8 


THE  CHIEF  FACTOR, 


'1 

li 

1 

li ! 
Ml 

!'■. 

I'    i    '  .   ■ 

!:•'■     ■ 

!'■"  'i 


very  comely  altogether.  She  wore  a  long  dress  of  buck- 
skin beautifully  ornamented,  a  coat  and  capote  of  the  same, 
and  her  small  feet,  cased  in  pretty  mocassins,  carried 
snow-shoes  as  a  nymph  might.  She  drew  off  a  mitten,  and 
frankly  reaching  out  her  hand  to  the  Factor,  said  :  "  The 
storm  is  gone  and  you  come  with  the  sun,  Ironheart." 

He  smiled  gravely.  "Summer-Hair,"  he  said,  "how 
do  you  come  here  ?  ' ' 

She  looked  demurely  down  at  her  snow-shoes,  then  up 
into  his  eyes,  and  waved  her  arm  playfully  through  the  air. 
"The  birds  fly,  the  wild  goose  swims  on  the  wind,  and 
Summer-Hair  rides  as  they  ride."  Here  her  look  became 
mischievous.  "  They  think  I  walk  on  these,"  she  added, 
looking  at  her  snow-shoes,  "  but  I  don't ;  I  walk  as  the 
clouds  walk. " 

"I  almost  believe  you  do,"  was  his  reply.  "  For  you 
come  out  of  nowhere,  .and  when  one  least  expects  you." 

Her  young  face  grew  for  an  instant  grave,  then  she 
looked  at  him  shyly.  "  That  is  the  way  with  me.  I  know 
when  you  are  coming,  and  where  you  are."  Then  her 
shyness  ran  into  playfulness  again.  "  For,  you  see,  I  am 
so  much  with  the  clouds,  and  can  look  down."  Her 
fingers  tossed  fantastically  upwards.  "Yes,  and  I  know 
whether  you  will  be  dark  like  thunder  or  as  the  still  water 
that  shines  in  the  sun.  .  .  .  You  are  like  the  thunder 
now,  and  I  am  here.  ...  I  am  not  Summer-Hair. 
I  am  a  spirit. "  She  clapped  her  hands  gently  before  her, 
then  spread  them  out  in  the  sun  with  a  gesture  of  delight : 
an  Ariel  of  the  north,  yet  an  Ariel  with  a  wistfulness  too. 

To  any  other  man  this  would  have  been  bewitching  to 
a  degree,  for,  when  Summer-Hair's  face  lighted  up,  as 
dark  faces  can  light,  eloquently,  when  there  ran  into  it  the 


A    COURIER   OF  SAFETY. 


109 


jjiilse  of  the  brilliant  short-lived  summer  of   the  north, 
whose   brightness    she    seemed    to   have  stolen,  she  was 
charming.     White  men  at  Fort  Saviour  had  tried  to  win 
her  for  a  wife,  but  she  had  put  them  off,  nor  had  she  been 
wooed  successfully  by  one  of  her  own  race.     Most  of  the 
young  men  of  the  tribe  had,  in  fact,  come  to  look  upon 
her  as  impossible  to  them,  though  Eagle  Cry  had  in  tu\\%, 
commanded  and  beseeched,  and  the  young  braves  had  en^^ 
treated.     Once  a  brave  from  a  neighbouring  tribe  had  her 
father's  consent,  and  came,  de'  rmined  to  carry  her  off 
bodily,  but  gently  as  a  lover  should.     She  had,  however, 
shown  a  sudden  and  complete  resistance,  as  inclement  as  it 
was  formidable,  for  her  arrows  were  well  pointed,  and  the 
knife  in  her  belt  was  of  good  metal.     So  the  Indian  went 
back  to  his  people,  discomfited.     But  another  Indian  of  her 
own  tribe,  by  name  Red  Fire,  had  appeared  of  late,  from 
the  ranks  of  the  rejected,  and  he  was  playing  his  game  of 
love  with   an   astonishing   pertinacity.     With  the    Chief 
Factor  Summer-Hair  was,  as  we  have  seen,  very  compan- 
ionable. 

"You  are  going  to  see  my  father,"  she  abruptly  said. 
She  asked  no  question  ;  she  made  a  statement.  ^ 

''Yes.     Is  he  at  his  lodge  ?  " 

*'He  is  at  the  council-house  with  the  braves,"  she  re- 
plied. "There  is  a  big  talk.  Runners  have  come  from 
the  far  west — from  the  White  Hands.  There  is  much 
trouble,  and  the  young  braves  are  excited." 

Venlaw  nodded.  "Ah,  I  expected  that.  The  Mer- 
chant Company  and  their  allies  are  playing  a  deop  game. 
But  we  shall  see.     .     .     .     Your  father — what  of  him?" 

"  He  is  old,  and  the  young  men  talk  loudly.  He,  as  I, 
was  sure  that  you  would  come." 


\ 


V 


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K   1 


I" 


I  ,1  '-.V 


:rf 

! 

i 

1   1 

|! 

■  I 

■1; 

■  i 

t 

no 


r/fS   CHIEF  FACTOR. 


"I  will  goon  to  him  now,"  said  the  Factor;  and  he 
stepped  out. 

"Wait,"  she  said.  "Are  you  not  afaid?"  Again 
mischief  looked  out  of  her  eyes. 

"Afraid,"  he  replied,  his  voice  ringing  a  little,  "of 

Eagle  Cry  and  his  braves  ?     They  are  my  friends.    .     .     . 

^®sides.     .     .     .     !  " 

^°  ^   "  But  wait,"  she  urged,  as  she  saw  him  again  turn  to 

'go.     A  singular  smile  played  upon  her  lips.     "  Do  not  go 

'     by  the  old  post-house,  for  the  young  men  of  the  White 

Hands  are  there.     They  are  drunk  with  rum,  and  drunken 

men  strike  from  behind."  -  '    '^'  ' 

He  raised  his  eyebrows  at  her,  then  said  coolly:  "I 
will  not  go  by  the  old  post-house,  then." 

Once  again  he  made  as  if  to  leave  her,  and  still  again 
she  said,  "  Wait."  Her  face  was  now  a  little  cold  ;  there 
was  no  demureness  in  her  eyes.  One  foot  tapped  the 
ground  viciously.  "You  have  not  thanked  me.  Iron- 
heart?" 

He  turned  now  and  looked  at  her  steadily.  His  great 
face  flushed  to  the  brim  of  his  fur  cap.  His  hand  fell 
upon  his  beard  with  an  embarrassed  gesture.  "  Summer- 
Hair,"  he  began,  his  voice  telling  with  honesty,  "I  am 
an  awkward  fellow,  and  very  selfish,  and  I  think  more 
always  than  I  speak.  I  ought  to  have  spoken  here.  That 
was  unmannerly.  But  I  have  so  long  counted  you  a  friend 
and  ally  of  the  Company  that  I  did  not  consider  you  are 
a  woman  too."  c  v<:^  ^  . 

"  I  am  your  friend  and  ally,  Ironheart,"  she  rejoined, 
"  but  I  am  a  woman  too,  and — "  here  she  looked  up  at 
him  with  a  swift  but  pretty  irony — "  a  woman  needs  to  be 
thanked." 


A    COURIER   OF  SAFETY. 


Ill 


"  Will  you  forgive  me,  Summer-Hair?  "  he  said  blunt- 
ly, and  with  a  manner  as  would  be  natural  towar  Is  a  child. 

She  caught  the  tone,  and  it  drew  her  up,  looking  anger 
at  him,  but  instantly  that  changed,  and  the  better  reason- 
ing prevailed,  that  even  the  great  Ironheart  was  only  a 
stupid  man,  and  could  not  and  did  not  understand  even 
an  Indian  woman.  Then,  too,  she  recalled  to  herself  that 
she  did  not  quite  wish  to  be  understood,  and  she  said, 
with  an  assumed  indifference,  which  had  not  been  discred- 
itable to  a  gifted  sister- woman  of  another  sphere  and  hemi- 
sphere,— "  There's  nothing  to  forgive,  Ironheart.  I  was 
teasing  you.  ...  I  am  only  a  child,"  she  added, 
with  the  faintest  sarcasm.  Then  she  grew  grave  immedi- 
ately, and  said,  with  warning  in  her  voice  :  *•  Let  Iron- 
heart  be  careful  how  he  talks  with  Red  Fire.  The  Indian 
has,  sometimes,  a  forked  tongue."  i 

'*  Summ.'^r-Hair,"  he  responded  with  enthusiasm, 
'*  you're  the  best  friend  to " 

**  I'm  the  best  friend  in  the  world,"  she  interjected, 
with  archness  of  voice  and  manner,  and  waving  her  hand 
to  him  she  sped  away,  an  agile  swaying  figure,  into  the 
woods. 

He  stood  and  thought  a  moment,  then  walked  slowly 
on,  once  or  twice  shaking  his  head  doubtfully,  and  looking 
back  towards  the  spot  where  he  had  last  seen  her.  She 
had  done  the  same  with  a  difference.  She  arrived  at  ihe 
Indian  village  long  before  he  did,  for  she  had  travelled 
with  much  swiftness,  and  had  taken  a  shorter  way.  She 
found  the  braves  still  gathered  in  the  council-house.  The 
great  room  of  the  tent  was  partitioned  by  a  curtain,  and 
behind  this  she  placed  herself  that  she  might  hear  all  that 
was  said.     She  feared  that  some  untoward  decision  should 


».  *»  1 1 
1  ''' 


■  if 


1  :. 


X-i 


112 


THE   C/r/EF  FACTOR, 


B*! 


ii , 


M 


IWilliiiii!!;:;:! 


,i||il|»tllll||i',i;., li,    _. 


be  arrived  at  before  Ironheart  came.  Some  had  spoken 
bitterly  of  the  pale  faces  in  general,  and  had  declared  for 
union  with  the  tribes  of  the  west,  and  a  war  against  the 
great  companies ;  others  had  proi)osed  simply  the  spoiling 
of  Fort  Saviour  and  Fort  Mary  ;  but  the  old  men  had  coun- 
selled peace  and  amity.  Of  these  was  the  chief.  Eagle  Cry. 
The  young  men  were  led  by  Red  Fire.  The  latter,  with 
biting  arguments,  opposed  their  chief.  Theoretically  the 
opposition  of  the  Indians  to  the  white  invaders  was  un- 
assailable. The  Hudson's  Bay  Company  and  the  North 
West  Company  were  conquerors  and  spoilers. 

The  secret  of  Red  Fire's  strong  antagonism  could  be 
traced  in  the  insinuating  remarks  made  to  Eagle  Cry  con- 
cerning Summer-Hair.  At  last  he  boldly  declared  that  his 
chiefs  counsels  for  peace  were  influenced  by  the  fact  that 
he  wished  to  make  his  daughter  the  wife  of  the  white  saga- 
more, Ironheart.  At  this  Eagle  Cry  rose,  as  if  in  final 
speech  for  the  reply.  He  said  :  ''Brothers  and  warriors, 
I  have  been  a  chief  of  the  Sun  Rocks  for  forty  years.  I 
took  no  wife,  I  had  no  children,  till  I  had  begun  to  see  the 
shadows  fall  toward  the  east.  My  heart  was  big  with  war, 
and  we  fought  many  tribes,  conquering,  and  some  here  are 
of  the  conquered,  now  one  with  us.  Then  came  a  time  of 
peace.  In  those  days  my  wigwam  was  lonely,  and  I  took 
a  wife  from  the  daughters  of  the  Flying  Clouds,  the  sacred 
race.  There  was  joy  among  the  Sun  Rocks,  many  fires 
were  lighted,  and  there  was  long  feasting.  We  prospered. 
As  we  had  been  victorious  in  war,  we  were  perfect  in 
peace,  and  the  land  was  filled  with  plenty.  The  snows 
fell  not  so  heavily  and  the  north  winds  had  mercy.  My 
marriage  pleased  the  High  Spirit.  So  we  continued.  We 
became  allies  of  the  Great  Company.     And  we  have  re- 


A    COURIER   OF  SAFETY. 


113 


;n  had  coun- 


mained  so.  But,  for  the  child  :  She  grew  up  among  you. 
She  loved  you  all  as  brothers  and  fathers.  She  w?s  kind 
to  the  sick,  and  cared  for  those  whose  kinsmen  fell  in  the 
forest  through  sickness,  or  death  by  wild  Ixiasts.  Her 
mother  died  one  day  when  she  was  yet  a  little  child.  Her 
tril)e  was  her  mother.  She  has  been  the  pride  of  her  tribe 
and  of  her  father's  lodge  to  this  hour." 

Here  the  old  man  paused,  and  stood  stately  and  thought- 
ful. There  were  long  murmurs  of  approbation  from  the 
older  men,  and  the  young  men  were  silent,  but  they  had 
now  no  anger  in  their  faces. 

'*  Then  came  the  time  when  she  should  take  a  husband. 
The  young  men  presented  themselves.  She  loved  them  as 
brothers.  She  was  kind  to  them  ;  but  she  had  no  love  as 
the  wife  loves,  and  she  would  not  go  with  them.  There 
was  one  brave  whom  I  wished  for  her.  I  said  to  him 
'  Come,'  and  he  came.  But  he  was  quick  of  temper  and 
impatient,  and  she  sent  him  away  lonely.  Well,  his  heart 
is  angry  because  of  this — this  man  whom  I  desired.  He 
is  angry  with  me  and  with  the  Great  Company." 

Again  he  paused,  and  there  was  absolute  silence,  save 
where  the  breath  of  Red  Fire  came  weightily. 

Eagle  Cry  continued  :  **  It  was  the  Great  Company 
that  saved  us  when  the  terrible  sickness  fell,  and  our  peo- 
ple faded  like  the  leaves  before  the  October  wind.  Iron- 
heart  has  been  our  friend.  He  has  taught  us  many  things ; 
he  has  traded  fairly  with  us ;  he  has  kept  his  word ; 
he  has  sat  in  our  lodges,  and  has  been  a  comrade  with  us. 
.  .  .  He  is  a  brother,  but  no  lover  of  Summer-Hair. 
I  do  not  want  him  for  a  son  ;  he  does  not  want  me  for  a 
father.  Let  us  be  at  peace.  My  heart  is  friendly  toward 
Red  Fire,  but  he  speaks  wildly." 


,..4, 


^1 


! 


I 


H 


114 


THE   CHIEF  FACTOR. 


I' III, I  ■ -,'Hi 


Here  the  old  chief  drew  himself  up  to  his  full  height, 
and  folded  his  arms  across  his  breast.  "  Eagle  Cry  wishes 
to  be  as  a  brother  to  Red  Fire,  but  there  must  be  no 
crooked  speaking,  for  though  your  chief  is  old,  he  is  chief; 
he  has  wisdom,  and  he  is  without  fear." 

He  sat  down  amid  a  murmur  of  approbation. 

Red  Fire  looked  round,  and  scanned  the  faces  of  the 
braves.  He  saw  that  his  council  for  war  had  been  over- 
borne, and  that  the  chiefs  speech  had  lost  him  much. 
He  was  vain  and  passionate.  He  grew  very  angry  and 
rose  to  his  feet.  He  was  about  to  speak,  when  the  door 
of  the  council-house  opened,  and  Ironheart  came  in  among 
them.  He  looked  round  calmly.  ''  My  brothers  of  the 
Sun  Rocks,"  he  said,  "  I  have  come  to  share  your  coun- 
sels. Red  Fire,  who  is  of  the  bravest  among  you,  is  about 
to  speak,  but  I  would  greet  him,  before  his  words  of  wis- 
dom go  forth  to  us;"  and  he  stretched  out  his  hand. 
The  two  men  looked  at  each  other  steadily  for  a  moment. 
It  was  a  case  of  superior  will  and  force.  Red  Fire  was 
fierce  and  vain,  but  he  had  strength.  Vanity  and  strength 
saves  even  an  Indian  from  the  treacherous  thing.  There 
was  a  moment  of  suspense.  The  indomitable  sincerity  and 
character  of  Ironheart  conquered.  But  Red  Fire  folded 
his  arms  over  his  breast,  and  said:  **  Wait,  Ironheart, 
till  I  have  spoken.  Then  !  .  .  .  The  words  of  Eagle 
Cry  are  true.  He  is  great  and  wise,  and  has  spoken  all  his 
heart.  Red  Fire  is  ready  to  be  ruled  by  his  chief,  and  to 
be  his  friend  and  speak  for  peace.  But  listen  :  If  this 
shall  be  so,  the  girl  Summer-Hair  shall  never  marry  a 
pale  face.  Her  father  shall  swear  by  the  sacred  Sunstone 
that  he  will  kill  her  first,  even  as  our  forefathers  sacrificed 
the  disobedient.     ...     If  this  be  so,  then  shall  I  be 


A    COURIER   OF  SAFETY. 


IIS 


one  with  the  Great  Company  and  not  hearken  to  the  new 
Company,  nor  the  voices  of  the  Indians  of  the  White 
Hand,  but  will  fight  the  Great  Company's  battles,  and  in 
token  will  give  my  hand  to  Ironheart,  if  my  brothers, 
whom  I  lead,  are  wilHng." 

The  young  braves  all  made  a  motion  of  assent.  Then 
Eagle  Cry  rose  proudly,  and  said  in  a  low  stern  tone — 
though  in  his  heart  he  was  dismayed — that  he  granted  Red 
Fire's  demand. 

Then  Red  Fire  stretched  out  his  hand  to  the  Factor,  and 
they  made  their  pact  silently  before  the  company.  But 
neither  loved  the  other,  nor  ever  could.  The  reason  why 
was  clear  to  Red  Fire,  but  not  to  Ironheart. 

It  was  at  this  point  that  a  messenger  from  the  White 
Hands  came  from  the  old  post-house  where  they  were 
quartered  as  guests,  heavy  with  drink,  and  asking  admit- 
tance. There  were  in  all  forty  of  the  White  Hands,  led 
by  a  young  chief  called  Breaking  Tree.  He  was  admitted, 
and  Eagle  Cry,  rising,  told  him  what  the  council  had  de- 
cided, and  begged  him  to  convey  their  greeting  to  the  far 
tribes  and  the  White  Hands,  but  to  say  that  they  must  re- 
main friends  with  the  Great  Company.  At  this,  Breaking 
Tree,  who  had  herd;ofore  been  confident  of  the  success  of 
his  mission,  threw  a  malicious  look  at  Ironheart,  and  cried 
out  fiercely  :  '*  There  is  the  white  thief  who  steals  away  the 
minds  of  the  Indians.  He  is  of  the  big  army  of  robbers 
But  we  shall  sweep  them  away,  as  the  grass  before  summer 
fire. ' '  Suddenly  he  raised  his  bow,  with  a  fanatical  whoop, 
at  Ironheart.  Some  one  seized  his  arm.  The  arrow  sped, 
but,  flying  free  of  any  in  the  council-room,  it  pierced  the 
curtain,  behind  which  stood  Summer-Hair.  There  was  a 
cry.     The  curtain  was  swiftly  drawn  back,  and  disclosed 


% 


i  m 


*  :i 


Ii6 


THE   CHI  Eh'  FACTOR, 


,  the  girl  with  an  arrow  quivering  in  her  shoulder.  A  score 
of  bows  were  drawn,  but  Eagle  Cry,  with  his  arm  round 
his  daughter,  cried,  **  Let  him  go  in  peace ;  he  is  still  our 
guest.  There  will  come  a  time  when  the  White  Hands 
,  will  lose  a  man  for  every  drop  of  blood  spilt  here.  But 
•  they  shall  go  at  once  from  our  village,  nor  shall  you  gi\c 
them  food  for  their  journey." 

Breaking  Tree  left  the  tent,  now  thoroughly  sobered. 
A  hundred  bows  were  drawn  upon  him  and  his  followers, 
and  with  these  menacing  them,  the  White  Hands  left  the 
village  behind. 

When  they  had  gone  another  council  was  held,  at  whic  h 
Ironheart  spoke  much ;  and  the  pipe  of  peace  was  smoked. 


% 


V 


; 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


A    SIEGE   AND    PARLEY. 


Brian  Kingley  had  captured  P'ort  Gabriel,  making  prison- 
ers of  two  trappers  who  had  been  to  it  more  caretakers  than 
garrison.  He  expected  that  there  would  be  fighting,  but 
did  not  think  that  the  Hudson's  Bay  Company  would  at- 
tempt a  re-capture  till  the  spring-time.  Fort  Saviour,  as 
he  knew,  was  the  nearest  fort ;  but  of  the  name  of  its  chief 
factor  he  was  ignorant.  He  did  not,  as  we  said  elsewhere, 
relish  fighting  the  followers  of  the  Hudson's  Bay  Company, 
but  he  would  not  be  the  aggressor,  and  that  would  make 
the  matter  easier.  Holding  the  fort  against  odds  would  ])e 
pleasant  enough  to  him.  He  loved  rather  than  avoided 
danger.  Those  were  fighting  days.  Waterloo  and  Tra- 
falgar were  still  news  to  the  world  and  present  topics  to  all 
British  men  ;  the  Greeks  were  fighting  for  independence ; 
war  was  in  the  air. 

Brian  had  but  thirty  men — voyageurs,  trappers,  soldiers. 
He  had  but  a  small  field  of  resources  behind  him,  while  the 
Hudson's  Bay  Company  had  resources  practically  unlimited, 
for  they  had  a  line  of  forts  from  which  reinforcements  could 
come.  It  was  a  forlorn  hope ;  but  the  North  West  Com- 
pany had  promised  him  more  men  in  the  spring,  and  it  was 
possible  that  the  rising  of  the  Indians  might  be  successful, 
though  this  was  not  a  matter  which  had  his  sympathy. 


%!  m 


k 


51 


iifii-iiiii 


i',i. 


Ii8 


THE   CHIEF  FACTOR. 


m 


'i!  I 


III 


i:  !;i 


' '''' 'llilii 


Anything  which  roused  the  Indians  against  either  company 
he  considered  an  evil. 

He  set  himself  to  work  to  put  the  fort  in  as  good  a  con- 
dition as  was  possible  in  winter.  For  a  time  he  was  busy 
enough.  Then  came  days  when  there  was  nothing  to  do. 
He  had  little  to  read.  He  thought  a  good  deal — more 
steadily  than  he  had  done  for  years.  He  occupied  himself 
much  with  his  past — not  altogether  pleasant  in  retrospect. 
With  Scotland  more  than  with  Ireland.  Was  he  becom- 
ing a  renegade?  When,  once  or  twice,  he  thought  of  the 
flute  which  he  heard  distantly  on  the  Red  River — and  he 
wished  it  were  at  Fort  Gabriel,  whoever  played  it — the 
songs  he  imagined  lilting  from  it  were  not  Irish  but  Scotch ; 
not  Garry  Owen  and  Glory,  but  The  Bush  A  boon  Tra- 
quair.  And  when  he  thought  of  Scotland  much,  and  of 
particular  events  of  a  certain  year,  he  became  disturbed, 
and  longed  for  action  to  take  the  place  of  thoughts.  This 
desire  for  activity  at  last  overcame  him.  He  had  not  the 
faculty  for  waiting  possessed  by  Chief  Factor  Venlaw. 
.  Two  or  three  times  a  few  men  had  been  permitted  to  go 
out  and  look  for  moose,  but  they  had  been  limited  to  cer- 
tain boundaries,  and  had  not  been  very  successful.  Brian, 
bored  by  his  inactivity,  determined  at  last  to  go  out  him- 
self with  a  party.  There  seemed  no  probability  of  any  at- 
tack from  the  Hudson's  Bay  Company,  and  in  any  case, 
those  left  behind  in  the  fort  would  be  able  to  resist  an  as- 
sault, and  hold  the  place  till  the  return  of  the  spoftsmen. 


)r|sr 
foS, 


There  was  the  danger  of  being  cut  off  from  the  fo^,  but 
that  had  to  be  risked. 

One  morning,  very  early,  they  issued  forth.  They 
would  probably  not  have  stepped  so  briskly,  had  they 
known  that  a  band  of  the  Hudson's  Bay  Company  men 


A   SIEGE  AND  PARLEY. 


119 


her  company 


were  watching  them  from  a  pine  grove  not  far  from  the 
fort.  Brian  had  more  than  once  debated  on  cutting  down 
this  grove,  since  it  would  afford  a  good  cover  for  an  attack- 
ing party,  but  he  had  hesitated  becs-use  it  sheltered  the  fort 
from  the  west  winds.  He  contented  himself  with  having 
it  watched  and  regularly  searched.  He  was  not,  however, 
aware  that  the  grove  contained  a  very  effective  hiding- 
place,  which  was  likely  to  be  known  to  the  members  of  a 
Hudson's  Bay  Company  party.     This  very  morning,  be- 

• 

fore  the  hunters  started,  there  had  been  a  search,  but  it 
was  perfunctory,  and  the  twenty  odd  men  led  by  Chief 
Factor  Venlaw  lay  concealed  under  the  very  noses  of  the 
searchers,  who  might  easily  have  been  captured  had  it 
been  according  to  Venlaw's  programme.  He  hoped,  how- 
ever, to  employ  strategy ;  the  more  so,  because  he  had 
heard  one  of  the  men  from  the  fort  speak  of  the  projected 
hunt.  .    '. 

When  the  searchers  returned  to  the  fort,  and  soon  after- 
wards he  saw  Brian  and  his  handful  of  men  issue  forth,  he 
determined  on  his  plan  of  action.  About  noon  would  be 
the  slackest  time  at  the  fort.  Moreover,  any  one  who 
might  chance  to  pass  out  during  the  morning  would  be 
likely  to  return  at  noon.  His  action  should  be  governed 
by  this  event,  if  it  occurred.  If  not,  another  plan,  based 
upon  another  supposition,  should  be  put  into  play. 

It  was  his  intention  to  make  a  rush  upon  the  gates  at  the 
moment  any  one  should  be  entering,  and  so,  if  possible, 
enter  the  fort.  A  half-breed  left  the  fort  about  nine 
o'clock,  and  they  saw  him  returning  about  noon.  The  dis- 
tance between  the  grove  and  the  gates  was  about  one  hun- 
dred yards.  Venlaw's  men  were  all  swift  and  noiseless  run- 
ners, and  were  likely  to  accomplish  the  distance  and  do  the 


120 


THE   CHIEF  FACTOR. 


thing  successfully,  though  one  would  have  said  the  odds 
were  heavy  against  them.  ,  -    ■  -  ;. 

The  half-breed  came  slowly  on,  bearing  a  part  of  an  an- 
imal he  had  killed  on  the  shoulder  between  him  and  the 
grove,  so  that  he  could  not,  without  removing  it,  or  turn- 
ing towards  the  pines,  see  any  one  in  that  direction. 

Venlaw  turned  to  his  men.  '*  Don't  fire  until  I  give  the 
word ;  but  enter  the  fort  guns  cocked,  and  cover  every 
man  that  shows  himself.  Remember,  capture,  not  blood- 
shed, is  our  aim.  A  pound  of  pemmican  and  three  plugs 
of  tobacco  to  each  man,  if  we  do  the  thing  successfully. 
Keep  close  to  me;  speak  no  word.  .  .  .  Are  you 
ready  ? ' ' 

He  raised  his  hand,  holding  it  poised  till  the  half-breed 
was  almost  at  the  gate,  then  he  gave  the  signal,  and  with 
great  swiftness  they  sped  upon  the  fort.  The  half-breed 
did  not  hear  them  till  the  pad  of  moccasined  feet  was  al- 
most upon  him,  and  at  that  moment  the  gate  was  opened. 
Before  he  could  cry  out,  a  hand  was  clapped  on  his  mouth, 
and  he  was  drawn  backwards  to  the  ground,  and  Venlaw 
and  his  men  rushed  in  before  it  could  be  closed  upon  them. 
The  sentinel  who  had  opened  the  gate,  and  another,  stood 
an  instant  bewildered,  then  swung  their  guns  shoulderwards, 
but  Venlaw  and  one  of  his  followers  sprang  upon  them  and 
seized  the  weapons.  Both  went  off,  but  fortunately^,  with- 
out injury  to  any  one.  The  men  were  disarmed.  The 
rest  of  the  garrison  now  came  armed  and  crowding  through 
the  doors  of  the  fort  to  the  yard.  Venlaw's  followers  in- 
stantly levelled  their  rifles  at  them. 

The  Factor  raised  his  hand  towards  the  besieged. 
**  Don't  fire,  or  attempt  resistance,"  he  said ;  "it  will  be 
useless  bloodshed.     We  are  masters.     The  Hudson's  Bay 


A    SIEGE  AND  PARLEY. 


121 


Company  wishes  only  its  rights.  You  have  done  your 
duty  in  obeying  your  captain,  but  now  stack  your  arms, 
for  I  shall  command  you  henceforth."  The  men  were 
under  cover  of  the  rifles  ;  they  saw  that  resistance  must  be 
made  with  great  loss  of  life,  and  even  then  with  little 
chance  of  success,  and  they  dropped  the  butts  of  their  guns 
upon  the  ground,  still,  however,  holding  them.  One  of 
ihe  men — he  who  had  been  left  in  command — spoke. 
"  What  will  you  do  with  us,  if  we  surrender  ?  " 

"  Take  you  over  to  Fort  Saviour,  and  from  there  send 
you  south  of  the  Hudson's  Bay  country.  Stack  your 
arms  !  **  ,         _  v  <: 

At  that  moment  a  woman  who  had  accompanied  the  ex- 
pedition appeared  behind  the  men.  She  suddenly  raised 
a  pistol  at  the  Factor  and  fired.  The  bullet  grazed  his 
temple,  bringing  blood,  and  tore  away  a  piece  of  his  fur 
cap.  He  staunched,  the  blood  with  his  buck-skin  glove, 
and  it  froze  on  his  cheek  as  it  came  ;  but  for  a  moment  he 
did  not  speak,  and  he  did  not  change  his  position.  One 
of  the  men  beside  the  woman  seized  her  arm — it  was  her 
husband. 

Venlaw  spoke  now,  but  not  to  his  assailant.  "  Ground 
your  arms,"  he  said  sternly  to  the  group  about  the  woman  ; 
but  she  shrieked  out, — '*  Fire  on  them  !  fire  on  them  !  O 
you  cowards ;  I  could  kill  you  myself!  "  She  struggled  in 
her  husband's  arms. 

The  captured  men  silently  laid  their  rifles  down ;  and 
now  the  Factor  spoke  to  the  woman,  his  glove  stiff  with 
the  blood  from  the  still  bleeding  wound.  "  You  fight 
hardly  fair ;  and  I'm  not  sure  but  what  you  gave  you 
ought  to  get.  You  might  have  waited  till  you  saw  what 
we  intended.     You  were  foolish.     But  we  will  not  quarrel 


Vfl 


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I  4 

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% 

I  Hi 


122 


THE   CHIEF  FACTOR, 


'I  i 


with  you,  if  you  will  get  us  a  tin  of  tea  and  cook  us  some 
of  this  fresh  meat," — pointing  to  the  venison  which  the 
disarmed  and  captured  half-breed  had  brought, — "  for  we've 
had  little  enough  to  eat  this  two  days  past,  and  we  have 
work  to  do  yet  to-day.  And  as  for  your  husband,  if  he 
is  here,  I  promise  you  shall  go  with  him,  wherever  he 
goes."  . 

The  woman  was  overcome  by  the  Factor's  coolness  and 
quiet  speaking.  She  stood  for  a  moment  as  though  dum- 
founded,  and  then  turned  and  went  into  the  fort.  Like 
most  women  of  such  impulses  she  was  soon  after  as  earnest 
in  making  the  tea  and  cooking  the  venison  as  she  had  been 
in  her  murderous  attack  upon  the  Factor.  Meantime,  the 
prisoners  were  put  in  well-guarded  rooms. 

The  weather  grew  colder  as  the  day  went  on.  Decisive 
preparations  were  made  to  receive  Brian  and  his  men. 
Towards  sun -down  a  watchman  gave  the  word  that  the 
hunters  were  returning.  Venlaw  formed  his  men  advan- 
tageously, and  more  or  less  out  of  sight,  in  the  yard,  with 
instructions,  as  before,  not  to  fire  until  he  gave  the  word. 
Brian  and  his  followers  had  had  a  successful  day,  and  were 
in  high  spirits.  On  the  fort  the  North  West  Company's 
flag  was  still  flying.  Venlaw  was  too  cautious  to  think  of 
lowering  it  yet.  When  within  a  few  yards  of  the  gates, 
one  of  Brian's  half-breeds  gave  a  sharp  call  as  a  signal  for 
opening  the  gates.  It  was  answered  from  within  by  one  of 
the  Factor's  men.  When  the  men  were  immediately  at  the 
gates  they  opened,  and  they  came  in  eagerly,  for  they  were 
hungry.  Before  they  grasped  the  situation  they  were  near- 
ly all  in,  and  then  Brian  became  aware  that  rifles  were 
threatening  them  from  the  windows  of  the  fort,  and  from 
the  yard.     He  saw  that  they  were  in  a  trap,  but  he  was 


A   SIEGE  AND  PARLEY, 


123 


not  inclined  to  yield  tamely.  He  caught  his  rifle  to  his 
shoulder  with  his  eye  upon  the  leader  of  the  invaders.  On 
the  instant  he  recognised  this  leader  as  Andrew  Venlaw. 
He  was  dumfounded.  He  lowered  his  gun.  Behind  him 
his  followers  were  still  crowding  in  at  the  gate,  covered  by 
the  rifles. 

The  Factor  stepped  forward.  "I  think,"  he  said,  "it 
were  wiser  to  make  no  resistance.  You  have  lost  this 
game.     Save  your  life  for  a  better." 

''  Venlaw  !  Andrew  Venlaw  !  "  said  the  other,  finding 
his  voice. 

"  Yes,  that  is  my  name,"  was  the  cold  reply..  *'  Order 
your  men  to  stack  their  arms.  We  have  you  at  an  advan- 
tage." 

Brian  glanced  at  the  carcase  of  the  moose  which  his  men 
had  brought  with  them,  and  with  a  little  of  his  old  humour, 
answered  :  "  We've  got  our  venison  at  a  price  something 
unusual."  Then  he  glanced  round,  saw  the  hopelessness 
of  the  position,  and  added:  "Pile  your  arms,  my  men. 
We  have  lost  Fort  Gabriel." 

His  followers  silently  obeyed.  Venlaw  made  a  sign, 
and  the  prisoners  were  taken  into  the  fort.  Brian  did  not 
move,  for  the  Factor  motioned  him  to  stay.  When  all 
were  gone  but  they  two,  and  a  sentinel  not  within  earshot, 
Venlaw  spoke :  "  First,  as  to  the  matter  of  the  fort.  The 
North  West  Company  surprised  and  stole  this  post.  You 
were  their  chief  robber." 

Brian  made  a  gesture  of  dissent,  shrugged  his  shoulders, 
and  said,  with  that  old  disdain  remembered  by  Venlaw  all 
too  well, — "Indeed!  You  were  always  somewhat  raw 
and  unmannerly,  Venlaw.  Don't  you  think  it  were  fairer 
to  give  a  gentleman  bite  and  sup, — from  his  own  pillaged 


H\ 


*' 


iMM\ 


•|-11 


■' 


124 


TiFE  c/rrr.F  factor. 


■  1 


1- 


I 
1 


larder,  after  a  long  day's  tram|) — than  to  keep  him  freez- 
ing like  this,  with  empty  l)elly  and  choking  throat :  par- 
ticularly when  we  bring  fresh  rations  with  us,  bought,  as  I 
said,  at  war-famine  prices.  That  done,  I  could  easier 
grasp  the  fact  of  your  presence  in  this  wild  land,  and  as 
my  gaoler,  Master  Venlaw." 

The  Factor  flushed  to  his  hair.  This  Irishman  had  not 
changed  since  the  days  when  he  had  mocked  the  young 
Scotsman  on  the  fair-ground  at  Braithen.  He  answered, 
however,  with  some  sarcasm  in  his  tone,  "  I  supposed  thai 
good  soldiere  and  faithful  officers  thought  of  their  duties 
first,  and  their  bellies  afterwards." 

'*  Faith,  then,  Venlaw,"  retorted  the  other,  "I  see  nei- 
ther war  nor  duty  here.  Bedad,  you  have  us  by  the  heels, 
and  we  must  swing  at  your  will.  And  what  little  there  is 
to  do  officially  in  the  way  of  surrender,  can  be  per- 
formed, I  think,  in  a  warm  room,  and  not  in  a  freezing 
court-yard,  and  before  a  good  dish  of  hot  meat,  and  not 
on  the  flank  of  a  cold  carcase." 

Venlaw  was  very  angry,  but  his  temper  was  well  held 
behind  his  teeth.  **You  have  a  gay  spirit,"  he  replied; 
**  we'll  see  if  it  holds  good  when  time  of  reckoning  conies. 
Meanwhile,"  waving  his  hand  towards  the  door,  at  which 
a  half-breed  sentinel  stood,  "  this  man  will  lead  you  where 
you'll  find  something  to  eat." 

*'  Sure,  then,  my  solemn  and  ubiquitous  Scotsman,"  was 
the  response ;  "I  think  I  know  the  way  ;  and  when  we 
meet  at  that  hour  of  reckoning,  I  beg  that  you'll  wear  a 
face  less  like  a  hangman.  'Tis  bad  enough  to  be  a  pris- 
oner, but  to  have  a  surly  gaoler,  Avho  thinks  he  has  the 
world's  morals — and  immorals — to  guard,  treble  a  man's 
punishment.     Fellow-townsmen,  like  ourselves,  shouldn't 


■Hi     : 


'■\ 


A  siEa/-:  Am)  paki.i.y. 


125 


turn  (lorgon  when  they  meet  in  a  foreign  land.  IJut  !  I 
riMucnilHjr,  I  gave  you  an  invitation  to  meet  me  at  the 
North  Pole,  or  thereabouts.  Well,  here  we  are,  and  after 
supper  .  .  .  after  supper  .  .  .  eh,  Venlaw  ?  " 
And  Brian  pushed  on  into  the  fort,  where  his  face  suddenly 
grew  grave.  He  could  have  bitten  his  tongue  out  for  that 
speech  about  their  meeting  again.  The  memory  was  a  sad 
one  to  him  now.  But,  as  he  said  in  his  mind,  "  the  fel- 
low took  himself  so  seriously  and  was  so  unljcarably  im- 
maculate !  '  * 

Venlaw  watched  him  disappear,  then  stood  for  a  long 
time  regardless  of  the  .still  increasing  cold,  his  closed  fin- 
gers pres.sed  to  his  mouth  as  though  to  hold  the  words 
bursting  from  his  lips.  He  was  thinking — thinking,, with 
the  result  of  ten  years'  waiting  in  his  grasp.  The  man 
was  in  his  power  that  had  made  him  an  exile  from  his 
(ountry,  robl)ed  him  of  love  and  home,  and  si)oiled  the 
life  of  her  who  was  the  angel  of  his  boyhood,  the  hope  of 
his  young  manhood.  **  It  shall  be  done,"  he  said,  and 
dropped  his  hand  upon  hi.s  leg  with  a  thud.  And  Chief 
1  actor  Venlaw  had  a  fashion  of  keeping  his  word. 

A  couple  of  hours  later,  Venlaw  sent  for  Brian.  When 
the  latter  entered,  and  the  door  closed  behind  him,  the 
two  were  face  to  face,  alone. 

**  Well,  Chief  Factor  Venlaw,"  said  Brian,  with  an  as- 
sumed yet  effective  nonchalance,  "what  function  do  you 
purpose  now  ?  '  * 

''Only  one,"  was  the  business-like  reply.  ''First,  I 
may  tell  you  that  your  men  will  be  taken  to  Fort  Saviour." 
He  paused. 

"  And  for  myself  ?  " 

"And  for  yourself — hereafter."     The  Factor's  voice 


:*■ 


% 


126 


/•///;  en  I  I.I'  hAcroK, 


it 


^'      ':lii 


was  still  (julot,  yet  stern.     Then  he  confiniied :    ''And 
now,  hrian  Kingley,  we  have  some  things  to  settle.** 

••More  things  to  settle?"  rejoined  ilrian,  lilting  his 
eyebrows  ironieally.      *'  What  are  tliey  ?  ** 

••  liavc  you  ft)rgotten  the  last  time  we  met?  or  do — 
gentlemen — like  yt)u,  remember  nothing  that  they  care  to 
l\)rget?" 

A  tone  of  serit)usness  now  eame  into  Brian's  voice 
•«  Venlaw,*'  he  said,  ••  you  mean  that  day  at  lleltane  l-'aii. 
when  I  swung  a  Uiss  out  of  your  arms,  and  took  a  kiss  for 
a  slight  debt  she  owed  me.  Kaith,  it  was  pretty  but  inso- 
lent play.  I'll  admit,  Venlaw,  that  Tm  sorry  for  it  now." 
Hrian  meant  inhnitely  more  apology  than  he  expressed  ; 
and  he  would  have  expressed  it  all,  but  he  found  it  hard 
to  do  it  in  the  circumstances,  with  this  man  sitting  as  ;i 
judge  over  him. 

••  What  you  did  to  mc  was  nothing  ;  but  you  spoiled  ;( 
girl's  life.     You  spoiled  Jean  Fordie's  life." 

Ikian  flushed  suddenly  and  his  words  came  sharp  and 
hot.     •'  Venlaw,  you  lie  !  " 

Venlaw  got  threateningly  to  his  feet,  and  his  eye  ran 
sharply  to  the  other's.  ••  You  .shameH  and  ruined  the  sis- 
ter of  your  friend." 

••Again,  Venlaw,  you  lie!"  Brian's  voice  was  harsh, 
and  his  hands  clenched  on  the  table  before  him  as  he  looked 
up.  -      . 

The  Factor's  face  had  now  an  iron-like  hardness.  He 
had  resolved  upon  one  way,  and  he  would  not  be  changed 
from  it. 

"It  was  her  brother's  or  her  father's  place  to  bring  you 
to  punishment,"  he  persisted,  '•  else  I  had  done  it  before  I 
left  Braithen.     You  ran  away  from  the  father,  and  helping 


//  srECh:  .t/vf)  iwNi.i'.w 


127 


the  hrotlicr — Ic'r  your  own  Hafcty,  mayl)c — kept  thn  truth 
lioii)  him  .ill  thcHC  years.  Now,  I  huvc  to  do  the  hrothcr'H 
will  I  gladly  do  it.  If  he  ( ouhl  have  met  you  here  he 
would  have  killed  you.  Hut  he  could  not.  lie  (harmed 
me  to  do  it,  for  her  wrongs,  his,  and  my  own  ;  and,  by 
Heaven,  I  will  1  " 

Hrian,  ama/ed,  had  risen  to  his  feet  slowly.  He  said  in 
a  low  tone,  his  voice  roughened  with  bitterness, — "  It  is  all 
false,  Venlaw  ;  false  as  I'm  a  man  !     I  did  not  ruin  her," 

•♦  Hut  you  are  no  man  ;  you  are  a  poltroon,  a  coward  !  " 
The  words  came  with  very  scorn.  ^ 

Hrian  stepped  forward,  his  face  full  of  fury  and  his  body 
shaking.  *'  I'll  trench  that  lie  in  yoiir  blood,  my  low-l)orn 
.Scotsman,  if  you  dare  meet  me,  tossing  sword  points." 

•'  You  shall  not  lack  for  oi)portunity,"  was  the  (piick 
reply.  "  And  to  encourage  you,  I  would  remind  you  that 
I  have  been  waiting  ten  years  to  have  my  hour  out  with 
you." 

**  You  always  were  a  talker,  Venlaw." 

"  And  you  a  drunken  idler,  there  and  here." 

**  Faith,  I'll  not  plead  innocence  of  that,  Ixjforc  .so  per- 
fect a  judge.  1  see  you  have  been  reading  the  records  of 
the  Hudson's  Bay  Company.  You  ever  had  £t  taste  for 
scandal,"  was  the  reply,  with  malicious  sarcasm. 

**  I  read  no  records.  I  have  l)een  here  ten  years.  I  saw 
them  acted — saw  you  act  them." 

"  Well,  we've  a  pretty  account  to  square,  and  I'll  thank 
you  if  you'll  talk  less  and  do  more." 

**  We  cannot  fight  here,"  said  Venlaw  ;  "  not  within 
the  fort.  But  the  plains  are  wide,  and  the  moon  is 
bright." 

Brian  had  now  recovered  his  coolness ;  he  even  spoke 


!l 


I  m 


li 


*v    f: 


1I 


128 


TlfK   CiriRF  FACTOR. 


\\ 


with  a  grim  and  deadly  humour.  "  When  you  will.  Why 
not  at  the  moose-yard,  a  mile  or  so  away  to  the  south? — A 
noble  cock-pit,  where  we  may  have  our  game  on  a  smooth 
and  solid  table." 

Venlaw  thought  a  minute,  looking  harshly  at  the  other, 
and  then  said:  **  Yes,  I  know  the  place.  But  one  of  us 
must  fall,  and  how  shall  the  other  be  cared  for?  " 

'*  Calculating  ever,  shepherd,  but  not  inventive.  Why, 
if  I  fall,  you  can  send  your* men  to  bury  me,  or  carry  me, 
where  they  will.  If  you  fall — well,  you'd  better  provide 
for  that  by  leaving  word  here  where  they  may  find  you. 
Be  precise  in  that.  Chief  Factor,  for  I  have  a  presentiment 
that  you  shall  come  back  in  carriage  horizontal — while  1 
must  take  the, plains  again,  or  have  a  v/ild  minute  with 
your  rascally  comrades  here,  to  be  eaten  without  salt,  for 
I  hear  they  stand  well  by  you ;  as  is  likely,  for  you  and 
they  are  savages,  my  hills-man." 

Venlaw  was  quite  cool,  his  face  inscrutable;  his  eyes 
had  a  resolute  shadow  and  a  directness  almost  oppressive 
to  a  lesser  man  than  Brian.  But  the  North  had  given 
them  both  of  its  intrepidity,  and  neither  blenched  before 
the  other.  Brian's  was  a  fine  face,  the  more  pleasant  of 
the  two,  as  his  form  was  the  more  graceful  and  closely 
knit.  He  stood  with  a  hand  on  his  hip,  and  his  other 
arm  resting  on  a  high  desk  near,  at  ease,  yet  alert  and 
forceful.  The  other  looked  honest,  strenuous,  impreg- 
nable ;  a  leader  of  men. 

A  sudden  silence  came  between  them.  The  candle 
flickered,  and  the  eyes  of  both  fell  on  it  mechanically, 
stayed  a  moment,  then  met.  They  were  both,  that  in- 
stant, thinking  of  Beltane  Fair ;  Venlaw  revengefully,  bit- 
terly ;  the  other  remorsefully,  for  the  event  was  doubling 


A   SIEGE  AND  PARLEY. 


129 


on  him  thoroughly.  He  loved  the  woman  now  in  mem- 
ory as  in  present  fact,  and  through  his  fault  she  had  evi- 
dently been  slandered.  Venlaw  believed  her  guilty.  Well, 
he  should  pay  for  that.  If  he  himself  fell,  he  should  only 
be  getting  his  due.     And  so,  now  for  the  end  of  it ! 

Venlaw  spoke.  "  I  will  leave  word  as  you  say ;  also, 
that  in  case  I  am  killed  you  are  not  to  be  followed.  And 
now,  what  shall  it  be — swords  or  pistols  ?  " 

*'  For  old  acquaintance'  sake,  swords  !  I  see  you  wear 
one,  and  mine  is  in  the  fort.  I  should  like  to  prove,  after 
all  these  years,  that  I'm  still  your  master  in  war,  as  I  did 
once  when  we  were  youths ;  and  in  love — as  I  also  did 
once  before."  Immediately  these  words  were  uttered 
Brian  regretted  them,  for  he  did  not  mean  them ;  but  he 
could  not  help  torturing  this  man. 

The  hands  of  the  other  trembled  slightly  as  they  rested 
on  the  table,  but  he  spoke  no  word  directly.  He  tapped 
ui)on  the  door  with  the  sheath  of  his  sword.  One  of  his 
men  entered. 

**  Confine  the  prisoners  for  the  night,"  he  said  ;  **  then 
bring  me  the  keys  of  the  gates  and  the  doors.  There  is  no 
necessity  for  a  watch.  Mr.  Kingley  will  remain  in  this 
room.  You  will  bring  buffalo  skins  here  for  a  bed,  and 
some  food." 

Then  the  two  men  were  left  alone  again. 

"At  midnight  I  will  come  again,"  said  Venlaw,  with 
his  hand  on  the  door.     '*  We  will  go  then." 

'*  At  twelve,  as  you  say,  shepherd, — and  you  shall  travel 
far  !  "  and,  turning  his  back,  Brian  sought  the  fire.  The 
duor  opened  and  Venlaw  v/ent  out. 


.i". 


■  ■i.\, 


ivu.^ 


.'  ?8 


ft  '1 


^fi 


CHAPTER  IX. 


THAT   INFINITE    EDGE. 


fi:^;^ 


n 


i'l 


II 


ili' 


There  was  no  wind  in  the  woods,  and  if  you  had  lis- 
tened you  would  have  heard  only  the  sighing  of  cedars 
weighted  by  the  snow,  or  the  occasional  crack  of  a  bur- 
dened limb.  You  might  even  have  caught  the  long 
breath  of  a  sleeping  moose,  but  little  more.  You  would 
have  found  it  very  cold  too  if  you  were  not  used  to  cold. 
But  just  when  the  world  seemed  all  a  frosty  dream,  a 
beautiful  solitary  mummy,  which  might  wake  again  after 
thousands  of  years,  and  one  would  hav^  been  tempted  to 
join  in  the  white  wonder  of  that  repose,  a  faint,  delightful 
sound  came  floating  out  of  the  night.  It  was  a  low,  clear 
note,  impelled  by  some  Orpheus  of  the  frozen  North,  like 
the  exquisite  contralto  whistle  of  an  organ,  muffled  in  a 
weft  of  filmy  cloud,  as  though  the  trees  were  breathing  the 
song  through  their  frost. 

It  grew  and  grew,  scarcely  becoming  louder,  but  more 
distinct,  more  sweet  and  piercing.  It  came  very  near,  and 
was  accompanied  now  by  the  soft  patter  of  feet.  These 
were  strange  things.  It  was  as  if  some  minstrel  of  the 
dead  was  sauntering  with  his  companions  through  those 
ancient  fastnesses. 

Presently,  an  Indian  girl  and  an  old  man  appeared.  The 
girl'a  lips  might  have  sent  forth  this  music,  so  warm  and 
eloquent  v/ere  they — a  protest  against  this  smiieless  world 


THAT  INFINITE  EDGE. 


131 


about  them,  eyed  distantly  by  the  presiding  moon.  There 
was  with  her  an  old  man  wintered  with  age,  but  pervading 
this  snowy  arena  with  that  strange  music,  which,  but  a 
moment  before,  seemed  almost  supernatural.  His  instru- 
inent  was  a  flute.  Soon  he  took  ic  from  his  lips,  and  spoke. 
"■  It's  bitter  cold  for  this,  but  I  said  before  I  left  the  old 
land  that  when  I  got  within  sight  of  the  place  where  he 
was  I'd  play  one  of  the  tunes  they  crooned  over  him  when 
a  child,  and  I've  done  it — fantastic  enough,  maybe,  and 
with  a  frozen  finger."  He  could  hardly  have  played  thus 
on  the  open  plains.     In  the  woods  it  was  not  so  cold. 

'*  You  are  a  strange  man,"  said  the  girl,  and  she  caught 
the  white  and  clammy  finger  and  rubbed  it  well  with  snow. 
Then  the  old  man  clothed  his  hands,  and  they  ran  on 
together. 

'*  You  are  nearly  as  much  an  angel  as  he  is  a  man,"  said 
the  old  man  to  the  girl,  '*  for  I  had  never  reached  him  were 
it  not  for  you.     You  are  wonderful." 

"  The  ways  of  the  Spirits  are  wonderful,"  she  replied 
musingly  and  a  little  sadly,    "and  cruel  too  See, 

there,  again,  is  the  fort.     Our  journey  will  soon  be  over." 

''  But  look  ! — look  there  !  What  is  that  ?  "  cried  the 
old  man  suddenly. 

And  what  they  saw  is  now  to  be  told. 

When,  at  midnight,  Andrew  Venlaw  and  Brian  Kingley 
stepped  out  from  the  fort,  there  was  a  marvellous  silence 
on  the  plains.  In  the  woods  slight  sounds  could  be  heard, 
but  on  the  plains  nothing  was  alive ;  nothing,  indeed,  in 
the  world  seemed  alive,  except  the  stars  and  the  moon, 
prying,  speculative,  incompanionable. 

They  walked  side  by  side.  Brian  turned  round  once  or 
tvv'icc  to  look  at  the  fort.     Again  once  or  twice  he  scanned 


■I  .«B 


J9.i 


m. 


r  ti 


'    I 
J.    - 


132 


THE  CHIEF  FACTOR, 


the  i)laitis.  Mo  was  impressed  by  the  austerity  of  the  earth, 
the  told  iinperttirhahle  sky.  Death  were  i)etter  here  than 
in  more  friendly  places;  the  world  were  not  so  hard  to 
leave.  He  was  interested  in  the  thing  itself — its  strange 
ne^s,  its  savage  contradictions.  He  cast  an  iiupiiring 
glance  at  the  face  of  the  man  beside  him.  It  wiis,  such  ol 
it  as  could  be  seen,  most  serious  and  absorbed.  The  man 
appeared  imconscious  of  his  companion's  presence.  Some 
thing  in  his  look  brought  a  lla.sh  of  grave  drollery  to  the 
other's  eyes.  Surely  the  owner  of  those  eyes  must  jest,  if 
even  grimly,  upon  this  man  to  the  end  ! 

Their  steiv;  fell  evenly,  but  made,  with  their  moccajsined 
feet,  only  the  softest  sound  on  the  snow.  Their  arms 
almost  touched  as  they  walked.  With  that  droll  look 
playing  on  his  face,  Brian  presently  l)egan  to  hum,  with  a 
half-tender,  half-mocking  cadence,  the  words  of  an  old 
song : 


"And  when  will  you  l)C  coming  Imck,  my  bold  cavnlier, 
Wilh  the  gold  upon  your  shoulder,  and  my  ribbon  on  your  brensl  ? 
For  I  know  ti  gallant  Waiting,  ana  they  whisper  in  my  car, 
That,  of  true  loves  and  new  loves  the  last  love  is  best." 


M 


At  that  they  came  to  the  edge  of  the  moose-yard,  and  both 
stepped  into  it  ;  it  was  sHghtly  lower  than  the  plain, 
tramped  smooth  by  the  hoofs  of  the  moose.  Brian  re 
peated  the  hist  two  lines  of  the  verse.  Venlaw's  teeth 
clinched.  Perha[xs,  unintentionally,  Brian  forgot  to  mock, 
and  threw  some  quaint  reflected  feeling  into  them,  an  airy 
]>athos,  which  struck  into  Venlaw's  heart  suddenly  and 
surprisingly.  He  fastened  his  eyes  on  Brian's  face.  Un- 
accountably, then,  there  came  to  him  a  sense  of  that  in- 
effaceable comradeship  of  race;  perhajxs  something  more. 


TirAT  nvinviTF.  r.DCh:, 


133 


lie  felt  what  he  had  never  before  done  *o  this  man — a 
.strange  and  deep  sympathy,  'i'he  solemnity  of  the  occa- 
sion moved  him.  Might  there  have  l>een  some  mistake 
alter  all? 

Hrian  was  whipping  his  sword  lightly  on  the  ir  y  air,  as 
if  to  get  its  balance. 

*•  Now,"  Venlaw  said,  with  a  hnrst  of  blundering  frank- 
ness, **  own  that  yon  did  wickedly.  For  it's  an  ill  thing 
to  go  to  your  Maker  with  a  falsehood  on  your  lijw,  Brian 
Ivingley." 

Any  other  kind  of  speech  might  have  influenced  lirian. 
This  could  only  rouse  resentment  in  him.  The  I'm  tor's 
lat tlessncss,  the  recapture  of  the  fort,  the  humiliation  he 
had  thereby  suffered,  and,  more  than  all,  the  false  accusa- 
tion against  Jean, — for  he  was  now  as  much  her  champi(m 
as  Venlaw — sent  a  sharp  reply  to  his  \\\yA. 

'*!  knew  you  were  a  bit  of  a  braggart,  shej^hcrd,  but  1 
did  not  guess  that  you'd  tremble  at  honest  fighting  with  a 
sword  in  your  hand.  I  said  you  lied,  and  you  did  ;  and 
I'm  ready  to  trench  the  lie  in  your  blood,  as  I  said.  So 
iiere's  salutation  to  you,  Venlaw, — ■ — and  good-bye  to 
you  !  "         ' 

They  saluted,  then  stood  to  position.  At  that  instant  a 
faint,  delicate  sound  came  over  the  snow  to  them  distantly. 
They  looked  round.  The  plains  were  silent,  save  for  this. 
Far  to  the  north  these  everlasting  hummocks  of  white, 
reaching  to  the  Pole ;  the  granite  integrity  of  frost  al)sorb- 
ing  them;  the  multitudinous  circles  of  icy  years  around 
them. 

They  drew  back  from  each  other.  Their  faces  became 
very  pale,  for  the  music  came  penetratingly,  sweetly  to 
them.     And    it  was   a    melody    to  which  one  had   been 


fi' 


fr   A 


■  J 


t,- 


,ff*^ 


t34 


rnE  cirrEF  factok. 


m 


11 


rraillcn,  and  the  otlior  knew  in  plonsjinl,  fannlinr  hillH  ;  it 
was,  intioovl,  soniclimcs  .sung  to  the  very  verHeH  that  Ixii 
now  fell  iVoni  Hrian's  lips.  They  Htood  tmnioving,  tlieir 
swords  drawn,  the  points  poised,  the  l)lades  (lasliing  in  llic 
nu>onhght.  They  seemed  to  listen  for  years.  Snchlenly 
with  a  swift  impulse  the  musit*  faded,  and  wiw  gone. 

And  astonished  beyond  words, — thoiigh  they  bolli 
thought  the  thing  a  trick  of  the  imagination,  —  but  ile 
tcrmined  still,  the  two  men  faced  each  other.  Still  theii 
swords  hung  inactive.  The  respite  seemed  a  nuitual  wish. 
They  scarcely  moved  for  a  few  minutes.  Presently  Hriai) 
raised  his  sword.  His  opponent's  lifted  also.  The  points 
caught  and  wrangled.  They  sawed  and  cliishcd,  played 
angrily,  drew  back  for  a  last  i)recipitation  of  energy,  and 
caught  again  wickedly.  Suddenly  there  was  a  sound  its  of 
hurrying  feet,  then  a  call,  and  the  ap[)roa(  h  of  two  figures. 
But  they  did  not  stop,  hnmcdiately  a  girl  jumi)ed  down 
into  the  yard  and  ran  against  the  swords,  throwing  them 
up. 

*<  Ironheart !     Tronheart !  "  she  cried.        ,; 

It  was  Summer-Hair. 

Then  a  man  caught  the  Factor's  arm.     **  Andrew  Ven 
law  !  "  said  a  voice  dissuasive  anci  reproachful. 

Venlaw  dazedly  turned   upon  him   and  said  hoarsely. 
**  Benoni  !  " 

**  So,  I've  just  come  in  time,"  rejoined  Benoni,  wheel 
ing  now  towards  Brian.     «*  Of  all  the  years  that  have  gone 
since  you  left  the  old  land,  and  of  all  the  days,  'tis  stranj^^c 
that  you  should  fly  at  each  other's  throat  the  moment  1 
bear  down  upon  you." 

Brian  looked  hard  at  him,  then  drew  his  hand  swiftly 
across  his  eyes. 


r////r  rs^nrr^rrn  niH:i<:, 


135 


•'  llrloie  (iod,  'Hh  slrange  cnoiigli  I  "  lu*  Hai<l. 

"And  wliy  sluMild  yon  fight?"  (ontifiiicd  the  old  inan. 
"  Aren't  there  IndianH  and  other  wild  bejiHts  to  be  killed 
williont  ridding  the  world  of  a  white  man  where  white 
men  are  few,  and  no  need  for  your  swords  going  rnsty  ? 
(lank  them  hack  into  their  scahbards,  for  I've  a  word  to 
say  to  yon  both  that'll  flnsh  your  fa(es  with  shame  for 
many  a  day,  however  (old  the  wind  blow." 

The  two  men  dropped  their  swords  into  the  sheaths,  n(;t 
yet  s|)eaking.  Snmmer- Hair  stood  a  little  apart,  looking  at 
the  l''a<tor  in(jniringly,  anxiously.  At  last  Venlaw  said  : 
"  Yoti've  come — from  home,  Bcnoni.      Why?" 

The  reply  was  impressive.  "There  were  two  men, 
brave  men  1  ard  they  went  mad  one  day.  For,  one  did  a 
light  thing  to  a  girl  in  the  face  of  the  world,  and  the  other 
did  a  v/rong  thing  when  he  wonld  not  trust  the  girl.  Ill 
was  spoken  of  her.  'I'he  years  went  on,  and  the  two  who 
should  have  been  there  to  set  her  right  l)efore  the  world, 
were   waiting  a   chance,  in  another  land,   to  bury  their 

swords  in  each  other But  'tis  cold  here  for  thos'i;  that 

are  not  fi'^hting,  and  if  we  may  go  on  to  the  fort  our  story 
can  be  finished  there." 

The  Factor  nodded,  and  now,  silent,  they  walked  bac:k 
to  the  fort,  abreast,  the  girl  beside  Bcnoni.  Once  the 
I'actor  turned,  and,  as  if  it  had  just  occurred  to  him,  held 
out  his  hand  to  Summer-Hair.  "  You  showed  J3enoni  the 
way,  Summer-Hair?"  he  asked. 

The  girl  nodded,  but  she  did  not  speak.  Again  there 
was  silence.  Presently  Brian  said:  "Benoni,  were  you 
l)laying  on  your  flute  just  l)efore  you  came?" 

"  As  good  a  tune  as  ever  was  played  01  ;t  of  heaven.** 

"Well,"  rejoined  Brian,  with  a  laugh  which  was  half  a 


i 


■iiji ' 


I 


';:ff 


;;i:'r:i: 


i.fii4 


136 


r//E   CHIEF  FACTOR, 


sigh,  **it  blocked  the  way  to  heaven  to  one  of  us.  For 
had  you  not  played  as  you  did,  and  detained  the  wrangle 
of  our  swords  for  a  minute,  you  had  come  upon  a  dead 
man  in  the  moose-yard." 

*'  I  don't  know  which  one  was  to  be  the  murderer," 
said  Benoni,  "  but  I  do  know  that  both  of  you  are  well 
tliis  side  of  heaven  till  you've  cleared  the  name  of  an  in- 
nocent girl." 

They  spoke  no  more  until  they  came  to  the  fort.  The 
gates  creaked  slowly  outwards,  and  Venlaw  was  the  last  to 
enter.  Before  he  did  so  he  turned  round  and  faced  the 
empty  plains.  A  desert  of  sand  is  sad  and  terrible  in  its 
desolation,  but  there  is  something  majestic  in  a  desert  of 
snow,  even  when  it  strikes  with  millions  of  deadly  needles 
through  the  heart.  For,  at  its  worst  it  has  no  torture, 
only  God-like  sleep.  The  Factor,  looking  back,  thought 
soberly,  not  weakly,  of  how  a  waiting  grave  had  been  foiled 
of  an  occupant.  At  that  moment  there  was  in  him  the 
spirit  of  the  North,  which  makes  men  brave,  if  it  does  not 
render  them  merciful.  He  thought  of  a  day,  ten  years  be- 
fore, when  he  bade  good-bye  to  Scotland.  He  paused 
longer  than  he  knew.     A  hand  touched  him  on  the  arm. 

<< Ironheart,"  Summer-Hair's  voice  said,  "when  one 
comes  to  my  father's  lodge  my  father  does  not  stand  in  the 
doorway,  but  hurries  to  give  him  welcome." 

"I  am  forgetful,"  he  repHed,  and  he  looked  kindly  at 
the  girl.  They  entered  the  fort.  The  Factor  roused  some 
of  his  men,  and  a  meal  was  prepared.  When  it  was  over 
Summer-Hair  was  led  to  another  room,  where  she  might 
sleep.  The  three  men  remained  where  they  were.  For  a 
time  nothing  was  said.  Then  Venlaw  briefly  explained  to 
Benoni  the  occurrence  of  the  day  before,  and  the  position 


THAT  INFINITE  EDGE. 


137 


of  Brian  and  his  followers.  When  that  was  done  Benoni 
began  to  speak.  Quietly  he  drew  the  picture  of  Jean's 
early  life,  of  her  mother's  death,  her  love  for  her  brother, 
and  her  devotion  to  her  father :  Of  her  as  she  was  in  the 
old  Castle,  at  her  household  duties,  or  at  the  loom ;  as  she 
appeared  in  the  streets,  modest,  admired,  discreet ;  as  in 
the  church,  reverent ;  as  in  the  dance,  blithe  yet  reserved ; 
as  always  good  and  true. 

Then,  while  they  sat  subdued,  wondering  at  th<  iimple 
power  of  the  old  man's  recital,  all  Brian's  assumed  irony 
and  nonchalance  gone,  all  Venlaw's  sombreness  modified, 
Benoni  spoke  gravely  of  Bruce's  crime,  and  of  the  anxious 
days  preceding  Beltane  Fair ;  of  the  occurrence  at  the  fair 
itself,  briefly,  firmly,  severely. 

*'  A  man's  only  a  man,"  he  said,  **  and  I've  seen  the  day 
when  the  brush  of  a  lip  was  pleasant  enough  to  me.  But 
the  deed  done  that  day  was  more  than  an  idle  thing." 
Here  his  voice  became  low,  as  if  to  speak  was  a  trouble. 

"  You,  Andrew  Venlaw,  listened  to  a  woman  who  sought 
to  make  bad  blood  between  you  and  Jean  Fordie,  and  you 
believed  the  woman  you  loved — the  plaything  of  this  man." 

Then  he  told  them  of  Ejgie's  confession. 

During  his  last  words  strange  changes  passed  over  the 
faces  of  the  listeners ;  both  became  pale,  and  Venlaw  rose 
from  his  seat.  "Is  this  so?"  he  said,  with  a  despairing 
voice. 

"It  is  true,"  replied  Benori,  and  he  drew  from  his 
breast  a  letter  from  Elsie,  arid  bade  Venlaw  read  it.  The 
Factor  took  it,  his  hand  trembling.  When  he  had  finished 
Brian  took  it  from  his  fingers.  Venlaw  dropped  into  a  seat, 
unhappy  and  dismayed.  When  Brian  had  finished  reading 
he  leaned  his  elbow  on  the  table  and  covered  his  face. 


r?' 


f'5 


,V.:i  ,...♦'. 


■m 


i-'iS 


,T"' 


^f:0 


III: 


M 


i.       h: 


138 


r//E   CHIEF  FACTOR, 


"She  has  endured  this  shame  ten  years,"  said  Benoni. 
He  paused.     Still  neither  man  spoke. 

"There  have  been  two  cowards  in  the  world  for  ten 
years  or  more,"  he  continued. 

Venlaw  and  Brian  caught  each  other's  eyes,  and  sprang 
to  their  feet. 

**  What  can  we  do?  "   questioned  Venlaw  manfully. 

**  Is  there  any  way  ?  "  hoarsely  added  Brian.  "  Before 
God,"  he  added  more  loudly,  "I'd  buy  back  these  ten 
years  with  my  life  if  I  could.  Listen  to  me,  Venlaw. 
For  the  thing  done  that  morning  I've  had  shame  enough 
ever  since,  and  I'd  not  cry  quits  to  whatever  punishment 

might  come .     But  what's  to  be  done  now  ?    There's 

the  trouble." 

Benoni  came  forward  so  that  he  had  the  two  men,  one 
on  either  side  of  him,  and  said :  "  There  is  this  to  be 
done,  that  you  shake  hands  like  men  and  forget  your  quar- 
rel, and  when  that's  over  I  have  more  to  say."  He  put 
a  hand  on  the  shoulder  of  both.  .      ; 

Silently  the  two  men  clasped  hands. 

"  Now,"  continued  the  showman,  "  there's  this  further 
to  do;  for  it's  what  I've  come  for,  and  what  I'll  not  go 
back  without :  from  Braitlien  you  came,  leaving  trouble 
behind  you ;  to  Braithen  you  must  go  back  to  right  that 
trouble  so  far  as  you  can.  I've  travelled  the  seas  and 
these  wild  lands  for  this,  old  man  as  I  am." 

"And  what  can  I  dc  by  going  back,"  said  Brian, 
"  since  Elsie  knows  the  truth  and  Bruce  knows  it,  aniJ  she 
has  spoken,  and  Bruce  and  I  can  do  the  same  from  here?  " 
And  here  he  sighed,  and  a  bitter  smile  passed  across  his 
face.  He  felt  that  if  any  went  back  to  Jean,  naturally  it 
should  be  Andrew.     He  was  sure  the  old  man  meant  that. 


THAT  INFimTE  EDGE, 


139 


and,  of  course,  Jean  also.  And  so  he  said  :  "  For  the 
rest  'tis  Venlaw  should  go  back.  'Tis  he  that's  needed 
when  all's  righted." 

Benoni  now  saw  how  Brian  was  being  punished.  He 
liad  probed  the  heart  of  the  man's  secret.  He  was  glad, 
and  yet  sorry  too. 

Here  the  Factor,  who  had  stood  muffling  his  beard  at 
his  mouth  as  though  to  blockade  emotion,  spoke  slowly  : 
''  If  there  is  any  to  stay  it  must  be  I.  But  as  I  take  it, 
we  both  should  go.  For  I  long  to  see  the  old  land  once 
again,  and  there  is  the  grave  of  my  old  friend  the  Dominie 
I'd  visit,  and  justice  to  be  done  altogether !  " 

Benoni  *s  face  lighted  up.  He  tapped  them  both  on  the 
arms  decisively.  "  You  will  both  come,"  he  said.  "  For 
the  last  words  she  spoke  to  me  when  I  stood  on  the  Castle 
steps  at  parting  were  these  :  *  If  one  comes  both  should, 
for  both  did  wrong,  and  forgiveness  does  not  carry  easily 

across  the  sea .'     So,  will  you  come,  or  will  you  stay  ? 

— both  come  or  both  stay,  it  must  be. " 

*'It  is  not  easy  on  the  instant  to  say  that  it  shall  be 
done,  and  yet  it  shall,"  responded  Andrew. 

"  I  am  a  prisoner,"  rejoined  Brian,  "and,  faith  !  I've 
duty  to  do  here,  as  well  as  Venlaw,  when  the  chance 
comes  again;  but  I'll  go — and  gladly — at  the  hour  you 
say,  if  I  can  ;  and  there's  my  word  on  it !  " 

Once  again  Benoni  spoke.  ''The  lass  will  break  her 
heart  if  Bruce  does  not  come  back  with  you,  but  I  fear  it 
is  not  safe.  For  though  he  mightn  t  lose  his  life,  he'd  for- 
feit his  freedom.  But  I'd  give  much  to  see  the  lad, — I 
call  you  all  lads  yet,  though  you  are  men  in  the  full  wash 
of  years — and  carry  a  message  from  him  to  her." 

The  Factor  assured  him  that  he  should  meet  Bruce  soon, 


11 


'^v 


\i 


% 


ml 


\ 


w 


W^' 


140 


TJ/£  CHIEF  FACTOR, 


life:!^' 


ill"' 


li'l'l! 


I  if 


/ 


and  told  him  of  the  expedition  against  the  White  Hands, 
and  of  the  movement  he  was  soon  to  make  towards  Fort 
Mary. 

The  candle  spluttered  and  went  out,  and  only  the  light 
of  the  fire  i)layed  upon  the  faces  of  the  men.  They  drew 
about  it,  and  smoked  a  pipe  of  peace.  And  the  hours 
wheeled  on,  and  when  sleep  found  them  Brian  and  Venlaw 
lay  together  under  the  same  blankets. 

While  these  things  were  happening  two  women  sat  be- 
side a  fire  in  Braithen,  and  there  was  bundled  up  on  the 
floor  beside  them  an  idiot,  who  muttered  to  himself  and 
blew  bubbles  from  a  basin  at  his  side. 

"  Elsie,"  said  one,  **  I  shall  always  think  that  the  poor 
lad  here  has  done  more  for  us  than  we  for  ourselves,  for  he 
it  was  that  made  us  friends  and  killed  the  wrong  between 
us,  and  sent  Benoni  across  the  seas."     She  paused. 

"  And  sent  Benoni  across  the  seas  to  bring  Andrew  back 
to  you,"  shyly  said  the  other. 

*' To  bring  Andrew  and  Brian  back,"  gravely  added 
Jean. 

And  the  idiot,  as  the  fleecy  spheres  of  water  lifted  away 
toward  the  ceiling,  or  fled  shuddering  into  the  flame  of  the 
chimney,  muttered, — ''  Oh,  oh,  pretty  bird,  come  back 

soon Oh,  oh,  the  white  horses Ride  away 

Oh,  pretty  Elsie  T*        . 


1:7,  iV        V'   '.'j:     I', 


:•>.,  '< 


1   ■.'.:■ 


V    '_--■■ -^      *y''^      J- 


;i;;:;  blii  U?,^/"  3^ .  V  .:••" 


CHAPTER  X. 


THE    BLOW    AND     THE    REBOUND. 


A  week  later  found  Chief  Factor  Venlaw  and  his 
prisoners  at  Fort  Saviour.  A  stout  band  of  men  had  been 
left  to  garrison  Fort  Gabriel,  and  these  were  speedily  rein- 
forced by  Indians  from  Eagle  Cry's  tribe.  Venlaw  was 
determined  that  the  redeemed  post  should  not  again  pa.ss 
out  of  the  hands  of  the  Hudson's  Bay  Company.  There 
was  little  to  fear  that  any  immediate  demonstration  would 
or  could  be  made  by  the  North  West  Company,  for  the 
news  of  this  defeat  would  take  long  to  travel  to  head- 
quarters.    A  surprise  could  not  be  easily  effected  again. 

Neve'-  ''n  the  course  of  its  history  had  the  Hudson's  Bay 
Company  been  threatened  as  was  at  present.  If  they  were 
defeated,  it  would  tell  hard  against  the  white  man  in  the 
country.  The  North  West  Company  had  not  played  a 
noble  game.  As  much  from  vanity  and  jealousy  as  any- 
thing else  it  encroached  upon  these  areas  where  the  Hud- 
son's Bay  Company  had  honourably  and  firmly  made  its 
position.  Under  the  name  of  protest  against  a  great  mo- 
nopoly, it  actually  shook  the  general  friendship  of  the 
Indians  for  the  white  man.  The  White  Hands,  if  they 
succeeded,  intended,  despite  their  protestations  of  friend- 
ship for  the  North  West  Company,  to  begin  a  war  of  race. 

At  Fort  Saviour,  Venlaw  strengthened  his  position,  gath- 
ered friendly  bands  of  Indians  to  unite  with  the  Sun  Rocks, 


II 

\ 


:  »■ 

Ir 


I  lis' 


.  r.       ! 


I;!''  . 


142 


TJ/£  CHIEF  FACTOR. 


and  sent  couriers  lu  bois  to  other  forts  south,  suggesting 
plans  of  resistana^  and  schemes  of  action  if  they  should  be 
necessary.  Since  that  notable  day  when  Summer-Hair  was 
wounded,  her  tribe  had  been  enthusiastically  staunch  and 
undivided  in  their  loyalty  to  Ironheart  and  the  Great  Com- 
pany. Red  Fire  kept  bravely  to  his  compact  with  the 
Factor  and  Eagle  Cry.  But  the  old  chief  was  not  so  cer- 
tain vh:»J;  the  result  of  that  compact  would  be  well  for  him 
in  the  end.  He  knew  now  that  Summer-Hair  loved  Ven- 
law,  and  himself  had  not  been  indisposed  to  seal  his  friend- 
ship with  the  Hudson's  Bay  Company  by  giving  his  daugh- 
ter in  marriage  to  the  Factor.  But  these  are  matters  above 
the  will  of  red  man  or  of  white.  You  shall  m(  e  easily 
bind  the  wind  than  a  man's  cr  maid's  desire,  and  nothing 
befals  as-  we  ordain  :  not  more  now  than  when  Euripides 
toW  tales  of  bis  old  Greeks  and  their  loves  and  slaughters. 
And  it  will  be  so  until  there  be  no  more  love  or  slaughter. 
The  Factor's  task  was  >i  huge  one.  With  Eagle  Cry  and 
his  IndiaJis  they  must  coincide  with  the  forces  from  Fort 
Mary,  attacking  the  White  Hands  from  both  sides.  The 
^'illage  of  the  White  Hands  was  in  the  Long  Valley  beyond 
the  Big  Sleep  Woods.  Venlaw's  policy  was,  in  this  case, 
to  assume  the  aggressive.  The  White  Hands  were  not 
likely  to  make  a  move  until  Spring.  He  would,  therefore, 
march  upon  them  at  once  and  strike  a  decisive  blow  before 
the  hostile  forces  could  begin  their  horrible  poHcy  of  way- 
laying and  massacring  stray  travellers,  or  should  seriously 
disturb  the  trade  of  the  year.  They  would  iirike  through 
to  the  west,  relieving  and  reinforcing  each  garrison  as  they 
went.  The  Company  must  now  maintain  its  position  with 
a  power  and  sharp  demonstration,  or  subject  itself  in  the 
future  to  constant  attack  and  harassment.  ^ 


THE  JULOH'  AND  THE  REBOUND. 


H3 


Not  the  least  anx'ous  for  the  expedition  to  start  was  Be- 
noni.  He  looked  forward  to  meeting  Bruce.  That  done, 
his  embassy  was  over  and  he  would  return.  He  and  Sum- 
mer-Hair were  the  staunchest  of  friends.  She  questioned 
him  unwearyingly  concerning  the  world  in  which  Jean 
Fordie  played  a  pai  t  so  important  to  the  lives  of  several 
people.  When  he  first  came  to  the  fort,  asking  for  Chief 
Factor  Venlaw,  she  had  vaguely  suspected  (what  woman 
does  not  suspect  every  possible  thing  as  bearing  on  her  hap- 
piness when  she  loves?)  that  this  man's  arrival  would  affect 
her.  She  had  never  rested  till  she  had  got  at  some  clue  to 
the  truth.  Then,  as  might  not  have  been  expected  in  a 
**  savage,"  she  offered  to  lead  Benoni  herself  to  Fort  Gab- 
riel. Her  father  objected,  but  because  he  saw  she  was  de- 
termined, sent  an  Indian  with  her  and  Benoni.  The  rest 
of  the  tribe  did  not  know  v/here  she  had  gone.  The  Ind- 
ian had  become  ill  by  the  way  and  had  to  return,  so  she 
went  on  alone  with  the  showman. 

Benoni  had  read  her  secret.  He  thought  nothing  for  her 
coufd  come  of  it,  and  so  at  last  to  turn  her  thoughts  away 
from  Venlaw  he  told  her  of  Jean,  and  of  Andrew's  love  for 
her,  in  as  careful  and  delicate  a  fashion  as  he  could.  Mean- 
while he  became  popular  with  the  Indians,  for,  with  his 
flute,  he  took  their  barbarous  airs  and  ^ave  them  melody 
and  fancy,  and  filled  their  lodges  with  a  new  wild  music. 
He  had  caught  the  spirit  of  the  North,  this  amazing  old 
Mercury. 

Arrayed  in  flaring  feathers  c^  war,  with  their  painted  faces 
and  garnished  buckskins,  they  listened  to  him,  in  a  great 
group,  the  night  before  they  marched.  The  trees  were  just 
beginning  to  send  forth  their  timid  and  juicy  leaves.  The 
snow  had  melted  and  slackened  away  along  the  wide  sluices 


■    I 


ti 


!»•;, 


\         \ 


a 


ri 


H 


144 


TY/A  CHIEF  FACTOR^ 


of  the  plains,  the  birds  came  sojourning  from  the  south,  and 
the  grass  rose  cleansed  and  eager  like  velvet  to  feel  for  tho 
foot  of  man.  Tie  air  and  earth  exuded  freshness ;  through 
the  pores  of  the  trees  came  the  sweet  sweat  of  their  sap  ; 
from  the  banda^,es  of  that  mummy  Winter  the  jocund  Sprinj> 
step»ped  forth  incarnated,  encouraging.  And  in  the  heart 
of  this  Spring,  through  long  flumes  of  its  young  breath,  lic- 
noni  sent  his  flotilla  of  melodies. 

He  tossed  the  blood  in  the  veins  of  the  red  men  with  the 
exhilarating  music  of  battle,  spun  down  the  drives  of  time 
from  barbarous  minstrels  of  the  hills ;  he  charged  their 
bodies  with  the  miraculous  pulse  of  his  own  temperament 
— a  Punchinello,  a  common  showman,  an  artist ! 

'Hien  he  suddenly  detached  himself  from  these  clarion 
chords,  and,  casting  his  eyes  on  Venlaw  and  Brian,  played 
with  great  softness  nielodies  familiar  to  them  both.  They 
were  going  out  to  battle;  and,  in  any  case,  it  was  best 
that  they  should  l)e  steeped  in  memories  and  go  forth  like 
gentlemen  wearing  the  favours  of  their  ladies  on  their  arms. 
For  such  live  better  and  die  better,  and  fight  ere  they  die 
with  more  valiant  arm. 

In  the  morning  they  tried  to  dissuade  Benoni  from  go- 
ing, for,  as  they  said,  he  was  old,  and  the  march  would  k 
severe.  But  he  laughed  at  them,  and  said  that  he  had 
marched  many  a  mile  with  better  men,  and  fought  with  as 
good,  by  sea  and  land.  That  his  hair  was  grey  was  noth- 
ing. The  hunger  of  travel  was  on  him,  and  he  had  a  lad 
to  meet  beyond.  Besides,  two  of  his  friends  were  going, 
and  there  was  an  end  of  it ! 

Yes,  hoo  were  going,  for  Brian  had  said,  because  they 
were  going  back  to  Scotland  together  if  they  returned  from 
this  enterprise,  and  because  these  Indians  were  the  enemies 


TIFF.    PLOW  AND  TFfE  NEnOdlVI), 


145 


of  all  white  men,  he  would  fight  with  and  for  the  Hudson's 
May  Company  in  this  rase  if  he  were  given  permission. 
Mis  duty  had  only  been  with  Fort  (iabriel,  not  with  the 
intrigues  of  his  masters  with  the  Indians.  This  Andrew 
gladiy  gave. 

For  many  days  they  travelled  without  sign  of  any  foe. 
They  reinforced  two  forts  and  two  posts,  and  at  last  came 
to  the  Big  Sleep  Woods,  beyond  which  were  Long  Valley 
and  the  village  of  the  White  Hands.  A  scout  had  brought 
them  word  that  the  White  Hands  had  had  the  dance  of  the 
jilack  Knife, — the  prelude  to  war, — and  were  just  about 
ready  to  march.  He  said  that  they  had  formed  themselves 
into  two  groui)s,  one  evidently  intended  to  march  west  on 
Fort  (Iabriel,  and  the  other  east  towards  Fort  Saviour. 
V^enlaw  decided  to  attack  at  once. 

He  pushed  forward,  but  suddenly  found  himself  at- 
tacked. His  men  fought  splendidly,  and  drove  the  Ind- 
ians slowly  back  upon  their  village.  Here  a  sharp  struggle 
took  place.  It  was  a  straining  tangle  of  battle.  l*rescntly 
the  White  Hands  were  reinforced  by  a  band  which  came 
hurrying  down  on  the  village  from  the  north.  It  is  hard 
to  tell  how  the  battle  would  have  gone  had  help  not  come 
also  to  Venlaw.  He  had  calculated  his  chances  well. 
His  plan  of  campaign  had  succeeded.  For,  in  the  nick  of 
time,  there  came  speeding  from  the  west  the  forces  from 
Fort  Gabriel,  under  command  of  Bnice  Fordie.  The  junc- 
tion ha(J  been  providentially  achieved.  The  enemy  gave 
way,  and  were  forced  to  retreat.  After  the  moment  of  the 
turn  of  battle  Bruce  came  face  to  face  with  Brian.  Ven- 
law had  not  counted  upon  this.  He  had  not  foreseen  that  a 
collision  might  occur.  In  Bruce's  veins  the  fret  of  anger  and 
battle  ran  high.     He  drew  a  pistol  insiuntly  upon  Brian. 


\ 


pa*' 


.1 


146 


77/ A'  cniHr  lAcroK, 


\ 


w  \ 


(I 


*•  You  here,  you  coward  1  I  gnve  the  thing  to  Venlaw 
to  do.  He  has  tailed  me.  I  do  my  own  work  now. 
Fight !     iMght!  or,  by  (lod,  I  will  kill  you." 

Brian  strctrhed  out  his  hand  Hwiftly.  "  Don't  fin-, 
liruce  ;  don't  fire  1      Listen  to  n»e  I  " 

Hut  at  that  instant  a  bullet  front  itrure'H  pJHtol  rauglit 
Hrian  in  the  shoulder,  and  he  staggered  back.  Venlaw  IhuI 
seen  the  two  meet  and  had  rushed  forward,  l)ut  Romcwhul 
too  late,  though  he  eaught  Hrian  as  he  fell.  Hruce  stood 
with  smoking  pistol,  the  weft  of  battle  loosening  from  abuul 
them.     He  wiis  da/ed  and  muertain. 

••  No  more  of  that,  Hru<e,"  said  the  Fartor.  ••  Yon 
and  I  have  l>een  playing  a  mad  game,  for  the  man  is  inno 
cent  of  the  worst." 

♦vlnnorcnt!      Innocent!      You  swore  him  guilty  tw 
months  ago." 

••  No  matter.  I  s|^ak  truth  now.  Here,  bear  a  hand. 
Cut  down  this  coat  to  see  what  hurt  you've  done  him." 

l^rian  had  fiiinted.  When  he  l)ecamc  conscious  lie 
found  Hruce  and  Henoni  iK'side  him.  He  smiled  up  inio 
Ikuce's  face.  •*  Faith,  you  greet  an  old  comrade  rarely, 
Master  Hruce,"  he  said.  "  The  bite  of  your  kiss  is  a  wild 
one."  Then  a  grave  look  came  into  his  eyes.  "Hut, 
maylx!,  it'H  help  a  little  to  make  even  the  debt  I  owe  yon 
aiui  yours." 

For  reply  Hruce  pressed  his  friend's  hand ;  but  said  (ho 
knew  all  now),  "  You  did  wrong,  Brian,  but  I  believe  you 
meant  no  evil,  and  I'm  sorry  I've  hurt  you." 

Brian  shook  his  head.  "Hedad,  no!  I  meant  no 
harm,  but  harm  has  come,  and  I'm  getting  a  little  of  what 
I  deserve.     And  there's  the  truth  !  " 

The  showman's  not  unskilful  surgery  extracted  the  bul- 


'/V/A;   HfOH'  ANIi   Tllh.   h'/atoCV/). 


147 


•  Don't  firr, 


let.  and  he  gtwe  It  m  IiIh  opinion  that  lUian  would  Huffcr 
no  iKMnmncnt  injury,  but  woidd,  on  the  contrary,  Ijc  hini- 
scil  af;ain  in  a  few  wccltH. 

On  this  Hide  of  the  Atlantic  they  had  n(iw  setllrd  all  ao 
nxintK. 

The  White  llandH  were  (onipletely  routed.  'I'heir  (hief 
was  brought  in  a  prisoner.  And  so  ended  the  most  notable 
stMiggle  of  the  IndiaUH  of  the  North  against  the  |)ea(:eful 
«(>n(|ueHts  of  the  Ihidson's  Hay  (>oni|)any.  For,  the  pride 
of  the  hostile  Indians  was  broken  ;  they  were  sidHlued  ; 
they  sought  peace,  and  kept  it,  uuk  h  to  the  confusion  of 
the  rival  <  onipany.  And  from  I'ort  Jac()ues  in  the  far  west 
to  Kort  Saviour  in  the  east,  and  straight  a<'ross  the  wild 
wastes  of  Labrador  to  the  cold  wash  of  the  sea,  the  great 
Company  of  Adventurers  resumed  their  strong  sovereignty. 


»; 


J 


I 


1 


acted  the  bul- 


si 


('IIAI'TKK   Xr. 


TIIK   TKNr   ntKIAIN    UUIWAKI)   SWlNcm. 


II 


1   !■ 


\w 


The  rolmn  to  l'\)rl  Snvionr  was  m  rtunplislu'd  hikcoss 
Inlly  lor  nrian,  and  withoul  now  danm'is  loi*  the  i'X|)(mIi 
tion.  A  tow  sooio  ol  l»ravos  and  a  han»llMl  of  lialf  brood:. 
i\ovor  rotnrnoil  :  ImiI  lor  th«»so  who  pari  tins  world  in 
rightoons  l>altIo  thorc  is  honost  and  rightoons  sluinlKT,  an<l 
stuls  lie  lightly  on  thoni.  Thoro  was  nionrning  in  the 
lodges  of  the  Sun  Koi  ks,  l>ut  there  was  rejoicing  loo;  lor 
happiest  ihey  of  all  the  world  who  woloonie  bac  k  the  war 
rior  tVoni  the  well  fought  lield.  The  wives  and  maids  wore 
dnxsed  it^  sv>rt  garnished  ljiu'k?»kin,  and  nioooasins  of  ihoir 
inost  industrit)us  and  artistic*  lunirs.  Among  those  Sunnnor 
Hair  was  lust  ami  last.  Red  I'ire  had  got  himself  renown 
at  1-ong  Valley — ho  luul  the  gift  of  bravery.  Hut  though 
ho  struttoil  through  the  oamp  in  his  oomcliness  and  valour 
it  had  nooharm  for  her.  Yet  Red  Kirc  waited  ;  for  he  had 
heard,  as  had  all,  that  the  C'hief  I'aotor  was  going  back  to 
the  land  of  the  pale  fa(  t^  ;  and  he  w.us  a  wise  fellow  amoiii; 
;i  foolish  |H.M>ple.  He  oonoeived  that  the  present  lover  widi 
present  gifts  achieves  most  with  woman.  Hut  Sunuuor- 
Hair  w;\s  silent.  She  w.is  not  as  other  women  ;  there  was 
in  her  veins  some  strain  of  ancient  pride  and  sensitiveness. 
She  knew  t^i  that  tair  woman  over  seas,  yet  she  had  taken 
Henoni  to  Vonlaw,  l>elieving,  at  the  same  time,  that  this 
was  death  to  her  own  hopes.  She  grew  grave  and  graver ; 
almost  her  only  companions  were  Benoni  and  the  wild  deer 


yy/A  ri.Ni'  cuntajn  ouriiAJdj  siv/Nas.    149 


she  luul  ((UhimI.  It  in  ixmHildr  llml  in  flirir  «'arH  «li('  li«ul 
|i(Mii('(l  out  her  iiijimI  ;  Iml  then,  (liiinli  <  reiitiircH  nre  hkc 
I  haven  ilnell  -  ihey  lak*-  all  <(Mi(i(lenre,  they  ^ivc  all  Hyin- 
|iiitliy,  hnt  ihey  ate  silent,  (aithftil. 

VVeekH,  nionlliH,  paKsed  ;  iJnan'H  wound  had  healed,  fit' 
had  been  released,  and  had  travell«'(l  south  to  ^et  leave  of 
\\\r  North  WeHt  Company  to  ^o  u|)<»n  that,  journey  bark  to 
Scotland,  or  l<»  resij^n  his  (onnnisHion  if  need  he  ; — and  the 
ii(c<l  wan  very  prohahle  alter  the  jrnrt  he  hiul  tak(;n  against 
the  White  Hands,  lie  wjw  to  sail  from  Montreal  and 
nuM't  the  (jthers  in  London. 

In  the  mi(l<lle  ofsiuntner  the  timeeamc  for  A' drew  and 
I'.enoni  to  )^o.  A  (  hiel  trader  had  <  ome  to  take  the  Vw- 
tor's  |)la(e  during  his  alwence,  though  it  was  possible,  as 
llenoni  thought,  that  he  might  never  return.  His  little 
company  '..f  voyaj^curs  wen?  ready  for  the  start.  The  eve 
of  his  (le|)art>ire  had  arrived.  He  had  now  eorne  fa/e  to 
lac  e  witli  his  |)ast  and  his  future  ;  he  stood  ufK>n  the 
bridge  between.  All  the  striiggltrs,  the  fighting,  the  en- 
durance, the  manly  hardship,  and  the  (onrjuests  of  the 
last  ten  years  were  about  him.  The  Indians  that  he  had 
subdued  were  his  friends  ;  the  men  to  whom  he  \\7m\  l)een 
a  stern  but  just  master  were  his  firm  a/lherents.  Ife  had 
no  comrades  ;  but  men  of  his  fac.ulty  and  j>ower  seldom 
have.     Masterfiil  minds  are  solitary. 

He  sat  in  his  office  alone.  The  last  stroke  of  the  fHrn 
had  been  given,  the  last  ncc,es.sary  comrnanrl  ;  his  office 
had  been  handed  over  to  another. 

It  was  nightfall;  in  the  morning  he  should  go.  Kvery 
item  of  life  aljout  him  became  distinct.  A  blue-t)ird  was 
whistling  its  last  notes  in  the  trees  without  \  he  heard  with 
interested  comi)lacency  the  trami)  of  the  tame  Ijear  in  the 


I- 


i 


% 


I.    i 


.ia 


r' 


If 


150 


77/ A    CltlEF  FACTOK, 


t 


yard  of  the  fort,  its  <'lmin  rAttlii\g  nflcr  It.  Mis  wnN  h 
tiikcil  on  tho  nail  whore  it  luul  hnng,  winter  nn<l  snniinci. 
sinrc  he  hjul  rontc  to  I'ort  Saviour  ;  he  looke<l  at  it  now 
nuvh.inirally,  yet  fast  inaled  l)y  it  ;  its  keen,  Hlrong;  pnlsii 
tions  were  suitetl  to  tlie  time,  for  liis  brain  was  senHitivdv 
ac  tive,  and  Ins  heart  was  l>eatii>g  ahnosl  painhiliy.  ThcM 
new  sensations  were  strange  to  hini  ;  he  <  (Mild  not  delinc 
tlKMn.  To  a  man  letter  versed  iit  the  langtiage  of  impK  . 
sions  it  would  have  Ikmmi  known  as  tmdefmed  regn  t 
Regret  <or  what?  lOven  Juit  he  could  not  tell.  Me  w.i. 
going  tt)  see  again  the  woman  he  Iwul  loved  since  he  \v;i. 
a  littlo  thild^  whatever  it  nught  bring  tt)  hiui.  lie  \\;is 
leaving — what?  Here  Ins  thoughts  nund>ed  ;  he  forgui 
the  world,  hin>self.  'i'ho  ^vatcii  ti(  ked  on,  and  throufji 
the  ticking,  as  thtnigh  if  came  frcmi  a  great  distance,  lie 
heanl  presently  the  word.  "  Ironheart  I  " 

lie  did  not  stir.     Then   a  hand   touched  his  shouhh  1. 
"  Ironheart,"  saitl  the  voic.  again,     lie  looked  uji.     Sum 
mcr-Hair  stood  beside  him. 

•'  I  am  come  to  say  good-bye,"   she  said,  as  his  eves 
turned  to  hers. 

*•  I  was  coming  to  see  you  in  the  morning  Inifctrc  I 
started,  Summer-Hair,"  he  replietl.  "  I  went  to  your  li 
ther's lodge,  but  I  could  not  find  you." 

**  I  am  here,"  she  rejoined  sii^.iply.  "I  have  broii,i;ht 
you  these,  for  the  white  (hieftainess  over  the  seas."  Slio 
drew  forth  a  beautiful  wampum  Ixjlt,  hu'^g  with  virgin  j^oll 
and  bright  metal,  and  a  pair  of  mcccnsi'is  deftly  and  gjoii 
ously  embroidered.  "The  l)elt  is  for  her  waist,  as  tlic 
great  girdle  of  white  in  the  sky  ,  and  the  moccasirs  arc  lor 
her  feet,  as  for  those  ^vho  walk  the  stars.  The  Indian  girl 
sends  messages  to  her  who  loves  Ironheart 


>) 


N.     I 


Tltli    TUNT  CVKTAIN  OUTW/IHD  SWINGS,     I5I 

V'ciilaw  took  the  giftH  arul  gnnfly  siiid  ;  '•Siiminrr- 
Iliir,  I  will  take  tlu"  giltH,  lor  the  white  (liiertainesH  will 
love  them  ;  Init  yon  arc  wrong— ^ihe  han  not  given  her 
liive  to  me." 

The  girl  drew  bac  k.  "  Yon  are  a  great  man,"  she  said, 
wilh  an  inHeetion  of"  doubt,  as  though  there  was  no  wom- 
iiii  Init  must  love  him  ;    "  beHides,  she  sent  for  yoti." 

He  Hiniletl,  and  shook  his  head  Hadly.  "That  Ih  another 
dung." 

"  Yon  will  come  ba<  k  ?  "  Hai<l  the  girl. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  was  the  reply.  "  My  arm  works  Im-sI 
lidc,  my  life  lii^  iii." 

"The  deer  are  wonder  fid  n|>on  the  jilains,  the  flf-sh  of 
the  moose  is  sweet ;  and  the  lodges  of  the  re<l  men  are 
w.irm  with  welcome.  Yon  will  (ome  back,"  she  urged. 
"  I  have  rcjul  the  sun  upon  the  Snnstone  on  Waiting  ilill, 
and  it  says  so." 

She  smiled.  FIc  was  in  a  reverie.  Tie  turned  to  the 
window  facing  the  south.  The  morm  stole  in  on  a  broad 
ribbon  of  light.  The  watch  ticked  loiidly,  Presently  he 
r(>ns('<l  himself,  and  looked  ronnd  to  speak.  Hut  the  girl 
was  gone  :   and  he  did  not  Kce  her  again  JKjfore  he  left. 

The  next  dawn,  however,  wher  he  and  his  half-breeds 
stole  away  gaily  towards  the  south,  a  figure  stowl  l)esirle 
the  Sunstone  on  Waitin/.^  Hill,  and  watched  them.  Once 
he  looked  back,  but  he  did  not  see  her  ;  and  she  remained 
there,  until  they  were  s|)ecks  ujx^n  the  hori/on,  and  were 
swallowed  in  the  light  of  day.  Then  she  sat  down  by  the 
stone  and  watched  the  sim  l)eat  on  it. 

She  sat  till  noon,  not  moving,  but  watching.  Then  she 
rose  and  said,  retreating  backwards  from  it, — "Nothing 
s!)eaks  since  he  has  gone ;  the  signs  have  gone  with  him." 


1 


B1  .'. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

* 

«  THO*    'twere   ten    thousand    MILE. 


it 


It  is  an  autumn  day  ^n  ^^raithen.  The  Shiel,  fed  by  the 
early  rains,  grows  to  its  banks,  and  here  and  there  over- 
flows. The  hill-sides  are  still  purple  with  heather,  and  the 
woods  about  Cowrie  Castle  are  a  grand  mosaic  of  colour. 
The  yews,  the  pines,  the  rowans,  and  the  oaks,  are  har- 
monious in  the  modulations  of  colour,  jean  Fordie  has 
come  to  the  top  of  the  tower,  her  habit  of  an  evening,  to 
see  the  sun  ride  out  beyond  the  hills,  and  to  take  a  good- 
night look  at  the  town,  whose  buildings  ambled  beside  the 
river  in  easy  irregularity.  Perhaps,  to  herself,  she  had 
never  absolutely  admitted  that  each  morning  and  evening 
she  looked  towards  the  south,  along  that  steep  road  belting 
the  hills,  if  haply  she  might  see  someone  travelling  towards 
the  town — some  old  friends  from  another  land.  If  hoi^e 
deferred  makes  the  heart  sick,  expectancy  makes  the  face 
young ;  and  from  the  first  she  never  doubted — ^such  was 
the  buoyancy  of  her  nature — that  these  old  friends  would 
return.  What  should  happen  when  they  did  come  was  not 
so  clear.  But  she  saw  justice  ahead  ;  and  justice,  to  her, 
was  now  greater  than  love.  For  she  had  suffered  an  in- 
justice, and  she  knew  that  it  was  crueller  than  unsatisfied 
affection. 

She  leaned  against  the  bartisan  wall,  her  eyes  upon  tlie 
south,  thinking  ;  and  only  seeing  the  horizon  lying  dimly 


£ 


*'  Ti/0'  'rwKKE  TEN  TiiousAxn  mtlk:'    153 


s.- 


iK'Vond.  Presently,  she  raised  her  head  with  a  fiuick  ges- 
ture of  interest.  There  were  three  horsemen  on  the  crest  of 
the  hill.  Of  course,  she  could  not  see  who  they  were,  but 
there  came  to  her  a  swift  instinctive  conviction.  'I'he 
( olour  heightened  in  her  cheek,  and  warmed  her  eye,  and 
sent  her  fingers  trehibling  at  her  hair.  She  watched  them 
until  they  disappeared  into  a  glen ;  and  then  she  went  Ix?- 
low.  It  was  natural,  perhaps,  that  while  she  waited  for 
something,  she  dared  not  think  what,  she  should  turn  to 
the  loom,  where  so  many  waiting  hours  had  been  i)assed. 

Her  hand  was  steady ;  the  shuttle  shot  back  and  forth 
with  clacking  music,  and  once  or  twice  she  paused  to  move 
her  hand  gently  across  the  cloth.  But,  from  the  smile 
upon  her  face,  one  would  have  said  it  was  a  distant,  not  a 
near,  thing,  which  occupied  her  mind.         ' , 

There  came  a  gentle  knocking  at  the  door  of  the  room. 
She  started  up,  moved  forward  a  little,  and  then  paused. 
**  Come  in,"  she  said.  "  ' 

Elsie  Gar  van  entered.  "  Yt  look  sae  strange,"  said 
Elsie ;  "  by  a'  the  warl'  gin  I  were  a  ghost ;  as  surely  ye 
wer'na  lookin'  for  me." 

Jean  laughed  a  little  nervously  and  said  :  "  I  dinna  ken 
what  I  expected,  Elsie :  but,  come  here,"  she  added,  "  for 
I  hae  a  thing  to  say."     Her  eyes  were  bright. 

**  Is  it  that  the  waitin's  ower  ?  "  said  the  other  ;  **  is  it 
that  they've  come  ?  " 

"  I  am  no  sure,"  answered  Jean,  "  but  I  hae  a  feeling." 

Then  in  a  low  voice  they  talked  together.  .  .  .  And 
three  horsemen  turned  upon  the  town,  not  far  away,  and 
talked  together  also.  These  paused  at  the  top  of  a  brae, 
and  looked  down  into  the  valley  where  the  town  repor.ed. 
And  one  said :  "  Faith,  Fm  thinking,  'twas  but  yesterday 


. .) 


i 


I 


V: 


.^  Eli 


!i  .1 


;| 


'111 
I 


'^: 


I'm 


ii"' 


:*iii, 


iS- 1  iM 


154 


r^-ff  CHIEF  FACTOR. 


I  roared  for  another  pot  of  beer  at  the  Rob  Roy,  and  not 
ten  years  ago. " 

"  Many  a  man's  gone  for  ever  from  Braithen  town  since 
then,"  rejoined  a  little  man  at  his  left. 

"  'there's  Cowrie  Castle,"  said  the  third,  his  big  hand 
levelled  at  his  brow  to  shade  his  eyes.     ' 

"Ay,"  said  the  first  who  had  spoken,  "there's  the 
Castle,  Venlaw,  and  at  its  doors  we'll  stand  before  we're 
an  hour  older.  And  I'll  not  say  but  it's  worth  comiii},' 
these  five  thousand  miles  to  do.  For,  bedad,  there's  no 
home  like  the  old  home." 

"And  there's  no  love  like  the  old  love,"  rejoined 
Venlaw,  beneath  his  breath.  But  Benoni  spoke  nothing 
further  but  whistled  gaily,  Roh  Roy^s  Return. 

An  hour  after  there  was  loud  knocking  at  the  outer  door 
of  Cowrie  Castle ;  and  then,  not  waiting, — for  the  door 
was  open — three  visitors  ascended  the  stone  stairs.  Be- 
noni was  leading.  On  the  threshold  of  the  door  of  tlie 
room  where  Jean  sat,  they  paused,  and  the  old  man 
knocked,  and  then  entered,  followed  by  the  others.  Two 
women  stood  together  by  the  loom.  One  started  forward 
with  a  faint  cry  ;  the  other  hung  back. 

"  I  have  brought  them  home,  you  see,"  said  Benoni. 

The  foremost  one  held  out  her  hand  to  him.  "  Yes, 
yes,"  she  said,  and  her  eyes  shifted  slowly  from  one  to  the 
other,  as  though  she  found  it  hard  to  be  sure  that  they  were 
there.  Then  she  breathed  hard.  "  But — but  whaur's  my 
brither  ?  "  she  added — "  my  brither  !  " 

Benoni  spoke  up  gently.  "  I  could  not  bring  him. 
He  could  not  come  back  to  Scotland,  if  he  would." 

"  Whaur's  my  brither  ?  "  she  urged.  Her  eyes  fell  ui)on 
Brian,  but  not  yet  in  greeting.     "  You  remember,  Brian— 


**TIIO'    'TWERE   TEN  THOL/SAND  MILE:'      1 55 


lirian  Kinglcy,  that  you  helped  him  awa'  ;  and  the  last 
time  that  I  saw  you  was  in  this  room,  when  you  brocht  my 
brither  tae  me.  You  went  with  him  across  the  seas.  Tell 
ine,  is  he  leevin'  ?  " 

Without  a  word  Brian  drew  from  liis  breast  a  letter,  and 
handed  it  over  to  her,  and  his  eyes  were  bent  on  her  with 
strange  longing.  She  took  the  letter,  looked  at  the  writ- 
ing on  it,  and  then  thrust  it  into  her  bosom. 

"  There  have  been  sorrow  and  troubles  since  you  left 
here,  Andrew  Venlaw  and  Brian  Kingley, — bitter  troubles. 
Von  hae  dune  wrong  to  ane  ither  and  tae  me.  I  hae 
waited  until  noo.  .  .  .  Tell  me,''  she  added,  look- 
ing at  them  all,  "  were  harsh  things  done  atween  ye,  or 
atween  my  brither  an'  onyane  o'  ye?  " 

She  was  still  solemn,  and  her  eyes  suddenly  filled  with 
tears,  and  the  look  upon  her  face  was  the  suffering  and  en- 
durance of  years. 

Andrew  Venlaw  spoke.  "  I  wronged  you,  Jean  Fordie. 
I  l)elieved  you — believed  you ** 

She  pieced  out  his  sentence — ''evil,"  she  said.  **  Do 
you  think  I  can  ever  forgie  ye  for  that,  Andrew  Venlaw?  " 

He  stood  like  one  stunned,  but  strong.  '*I  dare  not 
ask  it,"  he  responded,  "  but  I  have  come,  like  an  honest 
man  at  least,  to  acknowledge  my  wrong." 

Then  Brian  spoke.  **  You  must  forgive  him,  Jean  Fordie 
— before  God,  you  must !  for  he  did  no  wilful  wrong." 

The  woman  behind  Jean  started  forward.  **Itwas  me 
that  leed  tae  him,"  she  said,  and  stood  still,  trembling. 

Jean  waved  her  back  gently. 

Brian  continued :  **  The  beginning  of  the  wrong  was 
mine.  I  make  no  excuse  for  myself.  I  was  wild  and 
thoughtless  .'Jid  bad— 


{ fi; 


}» 


156 


THE  CHIEF  FACTOR. 


*' And  bad,"  Jean  repeated  after  him. 

'♦  I  didn't  know  how  much  that — that  kiss  would  cost 
you  !  "  he  added ;   **  and  indeed  I  didn't  know  how  much 
'twould  cost  me."     There  was  bitterness  in  his  voice. 
•  She  smiled  a  strange  smile.     **  What  has  it  cost  you?  " 
she  asked. 

He  threw  his  head  back  as  though  something  had  caught 
him  at  the  throat,  and  then  he  smiled  back  at  her  strangely 
too.  '*  Something  that  can't  be  reckoned  by  figures,"  he 
replied;  "nor  yet  by  years ;  but  part  of  the  account  I 
keep  by  a  scar  on  my  shoulder  and  an  awkward  arm," 

"A  scar!  from  whom?"  she  interrupted;  *' from 
whom  ?  *  * 

"  From  your  brother,"  he  ans.vered,  after  a  moment's 
pause.  "And  had  it  been  in  the  heart,  and  not  the 
shoulder,  I  could  have  had  no  quarrel  with  it." 

She  started  painfully.  A  sudden  anxiety  ruled  her 
features.  She  looked  at  him  for  a  moment  searchingly. 
**  Did  ye  fecht  him ?  "  she  said,  "  because  o'  me?  " 

"  No,  I  did  not  fight,"  he  answered.  "  There  was  not 
— time." 

Her  eyes  dropped  to  the  floor.  *<  I  was  a  young  girl 
when  you  went  away,"  she  said  at  last  to  these  silent  nui 
before  her.  "I'm  a  woman  now,  young  eneucL  to  care 
what  the  world  says  about  me,  auld  eneuch  to  endure  a'  it 
thinks.  Elsie  here  has  done  a*  she  could  tae  undo  her 
falsehood,  and  I  hae  forgiven  her.  .  .  .  And  noo," 
she  added,  and  she  held  out  one  hand  frankly  yet  sadly  to 
Andrew,  and  another  to  Brian — "  noo  I'll  forgie  baith  o' 
you." 

She  looked  at  Andrew  seriously  now  ;  then  dropped  her 
gaze  before  the  intense  earnestness  of  his. 


"  TIIO'    'TWERE  TEN  THOUSAND  MILE.''      1 57 


<'Well,"  said  Benoni,  here,  with  a  grave  lightness  in 
his  voice,  **  since  we  have  done  with  sorrowful  things,  let 
us  be  joyful,  as  all  home-comers  should.  And  first,  my 
dear,  the  showman  claims  your  cheek,  for  he  thinks  he  has 
earned  one  touch  of  it.  He  has  tramped  across  the  world, 
a  meddlesome  old  man,  with  a  flute  under  his  arm,  and  his 
raree  show  left  behind  him  and  growing  rusty  at  Cowrie 
Castle." 

Now,  for  the  first  time  since  they  had  entered  the  room, 
a  light  spread  on  Jean's  face,  and  she  leaned  over,  and 
kissed  Benoni  on  the  cheek.  "Is  that  all  the  pay  you 
ask  ?  "  she  said.     "  It  is  little. "  - 

"Ha!  Ha!"  merrily  laughed  the  old  man  in  retort, 
"  indeed,  it's  not  all  I'll  ask,  for  its  long  between  now  and 
Beltane  fair  again,  and  I've  lived  so  much  on  heathen  vic- 
tuals, that  I  could  eat  each  day  six  Scotch  meals  of  your 
making;  and  those  six  Scotch  meals  I'll  have,  and  more 
besides,  with  a  bed  under  this  roof,  and  a  little  good  liquor 
now  and  then  as  the  thirst  seizes  me." 

"  Ye'U  hae  a'  thrae,"  she  answered;  "asmony  meals 
as  it  pleases  ye — sic  as  they  are — and  no  you  alane,  but 
Andrew  Venlaw  and  Brian  Kingley  if  they'll  stay  till  I've 
laid  the  table,  and  made  a  hot  cake  in  the  ashes.  For 
Elsie  and  I "  she  looked  round,  and  paused. 

Elsie  was  gone.  She  had  stolen  away  when  the  change 
in  the  talk  occurred.  She  knew  what  misery  she  had 
caused,  and  while  she  also  knew  she  had  been  forgiven, 
she  could  not  face  the  look  in  the  eye  of  the  man  whose 
love  she  longed  for,  and  had  sinned  for.  but  who  must  al- 
ways be  far  from  her,  till  the  end  of  her  life  and  his.  She 
went  home  to  her  idiot  brother,  and  sat  on  the  floor  beside 
him,  and  said  nothing.     She  was  lonely  with  him,  for  he 


t 


-'\       V" 


s  %< 


ifr 


41 


•i;l?:l 


\i 


■r 


158 


TJf£   CHIEF  FACTOR, 


had  his  realm — ^his  wild  realm — of  fancies ;  and  she  had 
only  the  stern  world  to  fight  j  and  her  own  past  memories 
to  face.  The  idiot  fell  asleep  beside  her,  his  great  head 
lolling  in  her  lap ;  and  the  hours  went  by,  and  still  she  sat 
there  conjuring  up  that  room  she  had  left  behind  at  tlic 
Castle,  and  those  therein. 

If  they  whom  Elsie  thought  on  were  not  merry,  at  least 
the  insupportable  constraint  of  the  first  few  moments  \\  as 
gone,  and  they  soon  drifted  into  easy  talk  upon  old  days 
and  old  friends.  They  asked  for  her  father,  and  here  slie 
gravely,  and  as  Benoni  thought,  apprehensively,  said  that 
she  expected  him,  but  that  he  had  gone  far  across  the  hills, 
and  it  was  possible  he  might  be  late.  They  sat  about  the 
table  eating,  but  they  would  drink  no  toasts,  they  said, 
until  Black  Fordie  came. 

At  last  they  heard  his  rough  footstep  on  the  stair,  and 
he  entered  boisterously  on  them.  They  all  rose  to  their 
feet,  as  he  glowered  in  astonishment  at  them,  though  lie 
had  known  of  Benoni 's  mission  across  the  sea.  The  years 
had  dealt  hardly  with  him.  His  hair  was  very  grey,  his 
shoulders  stooped,  and  his  face  wrinkled.  Still  the  old 
sturdiness  was  there  too,  and  his  eyes  flashed  out  sharp 
looks  at  the  three  men.  Venlaw  he  had  always  liked. 
Brian  he  had  never  forgiven.  Had  he  met  him  a  year 
ago  he  had  killed  him  on  sight.  Elsie  cured  that.  Just 
now  their  presence  acted  on  him  strangely.  His  hand 
leaped  out  to  Andrew's  and  clutched  it  with  a  hungering 
eagerness,  and  then  to  Benoni,  and  it  caught  him  by  the 
shoulder.  **  You're  verra  welcome  back,  Andy,"  he  said, 
**  and  I've  a  noggin  waitin'  for  ye,  Benoni,  and  no  siccan 
a  ane  as  the  lass  has  put  on  the  table  for  ye.  But  it's  in  a 
bottle  which  naebody  kens  o*  but  mysel'." 


THO'   'TWERE   TEN  THOUSAND  MJLEr      159 


He  had  not  yet  spoken  to  Brian,  and  still  not  lookin,? 
at  him,  but  with  his  eyes  on  Andrew,  he  said  :  "Ye  ha^ 
cam  frae  the  Arctic  warld ;  ye  hae  cam  frae  the  land  o' 
exiles.  Did  ye  ken  if  they  heard  there  o'  a  wastrel  and 
villain,  that  carried  the  name  o'  Fordie  ?  " 

''  John  Fordie,"  replied  Andrew,  firmly,  <*  it's  but  few 
months  since  one  of  that  name  laid  his  hand  in  mine,  and 
said  :  *  When  ye  set  foot  on  the  soil  o'  auld  Scotland  again, 
the  first  step  ower  the  border,  get  aff  yer  horse,  and  gang 
doon  on  your  knees,  and  kiss  the  ground  for  me,  whether 
it  be  rock  or  heather ;  for  I'll  never  see  the  like  o'  that 
land.  It's  a  land  that  God  loves,  and  made  for  men,  and 
no  for  vagabonds,  such  as  was  I.'  " 

''  Did  he  say  that  ?"  interrupted  the  old  man  with  a 
slight  huskiness  in  his  voice.  "Did  the  hard-hearted 
scoondrel  say  that  ?  " 

"That,  John  Fordie,  and  more.  *  And  when  you  get 
above  Braithen  town,'  said  he,  <  stand  still,  and  look  down 
at  it,  and  say  :  *  A  man  went  out  frae  Braithen  town  like 
a  thief  in  the  dark,  and  he  took  a'  his  sins  and  his  shame 
\vi'  him,  a  .d  the  bad  luck  that  gang  wi'  baith ;  but  he 
left  his  heart  ahint  him '  " 

"  Did  the  raff  say  that  ?  "  cried  the  old  man,  interpos- 
ing, and  he  struck  his  leg  with  his  whip  as  though  dis- 
turbed in  mind ;  for  his  was  a  stern  nature,  and  it  had 
been  said  of  him,  all  his  life,  that  he  never  forgave — and 
even  yet  he  did  not  look  at  Brian. 

"  And  this  more,  he  said,"  continued  Andrew, — 
"' '  When  you  gang  doon  to  the  Shiel-side  dip  yer  hand  in 
the  water,  and  whistle  that  song  we  used  to  sing  as  we  pad- 
dled alang  frae  Cowrie  Castle  to  Margaret's  Brae,  For 
Ilka  Man  and  Ilka  Maid  that  lives  by  Shielie  water  ;  and 


ii 


1  t 

\  i 


hm 


•:> 


•I 


ri 


i6o 


yy/Zi    CHIEF  FACTOR, 


ill 


t: 


when  you  sec  the  Castle,  and  enter  it,  ycMl  find  a  man 
they  ca'  Black  Fordie.  And  he's  a  guid  man,  but  he's  a 
stern  man  ;  and  ye' 11  say  to  him  that  there's  a  lad  at  tlic 
Arctic  Circle  that,  maylxi,  he'll  never  see  again,  wha  wad 
gie  ten  years  o'  his  life  to  say  to  his  face,  "  Ye're  a  gran' 
man,  John  Fordie,  and  a  bad  day  it  was  for  you  and  for 
him,  when  he  brocht  shame  on  ye."  And  tak'  his  hand 
and  gie  him  the  grip  o'  the  clan,  and  what  mair  be  tlic 
willo'  God."' 

The  old  man  dropped  into  a  chair,  his  hands  on  liis 
knees,  his  head  iKMit  forward,  his  eyes  upon  the  floor. 
"  Did  the  lad  say  that  ?  "  murmured  he ;  ♦*  did  the  laddie 
say  that?" 

There  was  silence.  Jean's  face  was  turned  pityinj;ly 
away,  and  Brian  had  drawn  slightly  aside.  Benoni  seemed 
intent  on  his  flute  which  he  was  balancing  in  his  fingers. 

Presently  the  old  man  rose  and  walked  over  to  Brian. 
'*  rU  no  say  that  I  loe  the  sicht  o'  ycr  face,  Brian  Kinglcy, 
for  ye've  done  mair  wrang  than  guid  tae  me  and  mino ; 
but  I'm  willin'  to  let  byganes  be  byganes,  and  there's  my 
hand,  an  ye'll  take  it?  " 

Brian  clasped  the  extended  hand.  **  You've  got  a  son, 
John  Fordie,"  said  he,  "whose  name  stands  as  high  in 
that  new  land  as  it  stood  low  in  the  old  ;  and  you  do  well 
to  let  bygones  be  bygones,  as  others  have  nobly  done  \k- 
fore  you."     He  glanced  at  Jean. 

"And  what's  to  be  the  end  o'  this?  O'  your  com!  n' 
back?"  the  old  man  continued.  "What  hae  ye  come 
for  ?  Ye  hae  left  the  lad  ahint  ye.  Which  o'  ye  has  came 
to  tak'  awa  the  lass,  too  ?  Ay,  ye  needna  look,  ye  needna 
look,  as  if  ye  hadna  sic  a  thoucht  in  your  heid ;  but  ye'll 
baith  gang  back  to  the  land  ye  cam  frae,  wi'oot  the  lass— 


TIIO'    'TWEKE   TEN  THOUSAND  MILE:'     l6l 


John  Fordie's  lass:  for  yc  ken,  Andy  Vcnlaw,  when  ye 
should  liac  trusted  ye  dislx.'lieved  ;  and  siccan  a  fule  as  ye 
wore !  ye  ran  awii  An'  d'  ye  think  ye'll  mend  that  noo? 
And  for  you,  Uri  m  Kingley,  that  comes  o'  gentle  blood, 
yc  (lid  a  thing " 

The  girl  step? /ed  in  Ixjtween.  '•  Faither,"  she  said,  "  ye 
shall  nv>t.  'i  hey  hae  come  back — they  hae  come  back, 
only  to " 

"  Ay,  I  ken  weel  what  they  hae  cam  back  for ;  the  flame 
()'  your  cheeks  is  the  meaning  o*  that ;  but  I'll  no  push  the 
matter  the  nicht,  whatever  !  " 

Mere  lienoni  tossed  at  them  all  a  shrill  note  from  his 
flute,  and  imitating  Fordie's  voice,  said  gaily  :  «*  When  ye 
hae  done  prophesyin'  and  preachin',  Black  Fordie,  and 
when  you're  ready  to  think  alx)ot  things,  for  which  you  hae 
understanding,  I'll  tak'  my  noggin  o'  whusks  oot  o*  yon 
unco  bottle,  that  nane  kens  but  yoursel'.  For  ye  ken, 
that  when  it  comes  to  marryin*  and  giein'  in  marriage  o* 
the  lass  called  Jean  Fordie,  ye' re  no  the  only  man  that  has 
a  voice  i'  the  matter." 

At  this  the  other  wheeled,  and,  with  a  startled  and  pe- 
culiar look,  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  showman.  But  Benoni 
had  spoken  lightly  and  his  face  carried  no  special  signifi- 
cance at  the  moment,  and  Fordie  turned  to  his  mission  for 
the  liquor. 

But  Jean  had  caught  the  unusual  note  in  the  proceeding, 
desi)ite  her  own  embarrassment  at  her  father's  words.  After 
a  moment,  when  they  were  all  gathered  al)out  the  table, 
ready  to  drink  a  toast  of  Fordie's  making,  she  suddenly 
said,  in  a  strange  and  meaning  voice, — "  Faither  !  " 

Instantly  both  Benoni  and  Black  Fordie  turned  to  her. 
She  had  evidently  accomplished  what  she  desired.      She 


l\ 


I- 

% 

35 


^1 
1 


l^lTi 


i 


162 


THE  CHIEF  FACTOR, 


changed  her  tone,  and  said,  looking  now  only  at  John 
Fordie, — "  What  is  your  toast,  faither  ?  " 

And  he,  raising  his  glass,  said:  "To  every  frien'  o' 
Scotland  !  " 

"Wait,"  she  urged.  "And  to  every  absent  friend  o' 
Scotland  !  " 

"  To  every  friend,  and  to  every  absent  friend  o'  Scot- 
land !  "  the  old  man  repeated  after  a  moment ;  and  they 
drank  in  silence. 


I 

I 


!  i 


..) 


CHAPTER  XIII. 


**  PEEBLES   AT   THE   PLAY. 


»» 


All  Braithen  soon  knew  of  the  return  of  the  exiles,  and 
iKJcause  Venlaw  and  Brfan  came  amicably  together,  and 
were  amiably  received  at  Cowrie  Castle  by  Black  Fordie 
as  l)y  his  daughter,  and  Elsie  had  tried  to  undo  what  she 
had  so  illy  done,  the  makers  of  scandal  ceased  its  manufact- 
ure. But  old  women  as  they  crooned  in  their  doorways, 
the  elders  of  the  Kirk  as  they  sauntered  in  the  churchyard, 
and  even  the  minister  himself,  discussed  with  ierious  eager- 
ness the  present  passage  of  events.  What  Brian  had  done 
at  Beltane  Fair  was  not  forgotten,  nor  was  the  quarrel  that 
followed  it.  If  Jean  was  innocent,  it  was  clear  she  could 
not  marry  the  man  who  had  insulted  her.  If  she  was  guilty 
she  could  not  marry  Andrew  Venlaw  ;  and  so  jealously  self- 
ish is  human  nature,  that  very  many  of  them  had  been  glad 
if  she  had  never  married  at  all.  And  Jean  herself?  Never 
once  in  all  these  eleven  years  had  her  heart  faltered  in  its 
love  of  Brian.  But  yet  there  was  a  debt  to  Andrew  1  He 
had  distrusted  her,  but  he  had  had  some  apparent  cause,  for 
she  had  not  resented,  that  day  of  Beltane,  Brian's  shameful 
caress.  The  austere  sincerity,  the  high  honour,  of  this 
man  impressed  her  deeply.  He  was  worthy  of  her  ;  he 
had  always  been  worthy  of  her.  And  more :  she  knew 
that  since  a  child  he  had  been  her  lover,  had  honourably 
followed  upon  her  footsteps,  and  that  through  her,  indi- 
rectly, the  dreams  of  his  life  had  been  given  up,  and  he  had 


«^> 


■•;« 


I 


' 

.r 
■fi 

1 


1 04 


/'///<   ClUh.h    h'ACrOK. 


lH.'it)mc  lIxM  oiupaiiioii  ol'savam'-j.  lit*  li.id  ncvor  boon  tin- 
iiloal  l»»\'.v,  hut  ho  had  Iktii  |K'isistont  in  a  manly  way. 
ilDwiniglU,  gontlo,  ami  luave.  I'aimi  miw,  as  the  days 
wiMil  on,  slu'  saw  tliat  lu*  hold  hiinsoll  in  ( lio<  k.  His  man 
noi  to  lior  was  ovor  (liooilid  and  kind,  but  lio  von'urod  01. 
no  sign  of  lovo.  Vot,  l)ooauso  sho  liorscW"  lovod,  she  could 
road  tho  signs  in  lum,  inoonspiouous  as  lie  thought  th^y 
wore.  Sho  road  '  -ia  '  also  w'th  a  nathetic  kind  ol  in 
vanpli  ik  ; !  t  i  lei  with  a  drunken  triller's  kiss  upon 
hor  lips,  or  ir,  no  :*.«)re  Ibr  Ivor  than  lor  the  silliest  milk 
maid  in  tho  hills.  She  ,  now  now,  l)eyt)nd  all  doid)t,  thai 
his  heart  was  at  her  loot  ;  and  sho  had  boon  an  angel  and 
not  a  woman  had  sho  failed  to  appreciate  the  position. 
And  tho  two  men  bore  themselves  towards  ea<  h  other  with 
muommt>n  Cairness.  They  had  in  them  tho  soul  of  the 
game.  The  great  North  had  nuule  them  too  big  for  littK' 
jealousies  now. 

Hrian  ate  his  heart  out  in  seoret,  for  he  saw  that  Jean 
was  gentler  to  .Andrew  tl  -n  to  him  ;  but  when  he  mo( 
;\nilrew  afterwards,  he  was  always  friendlier,  in  proi)or- 
tion  to  his  private  uneasiness. 

l^laok  lH>rdie  anti  Henoni  had  tlieir  hours  of  suspense 
also.  They  also  had  their  hours  of  moodiness— a  thin^ 
uncommon  to  Henoni.  at  least.  One  day  they  sot  alone 
in  the  Castle.  Kach  knew  that  something  was  to  Ik* 
spoken,  which  had  long  lain  hidden  from  the  world. 

"John  Fordie,"  said  the  showman,  at  last,  "there's  a 
thing  on  which  we  have  words  to  say  to  one  another,  after 


many  years. 


i» 


Fordie  looked  straight  before  him  through  the  cloud  of 
tolxicco  smoke,  fiercely  puflfed  forth,  and  said  :  **  I  know 
that  weel,  IXiyid." 


"  ri.h.ni.l.S  AT  Till:    I'l.AVr 


105 


"  I'll  nol  have  many  years  lo  live,  John." 

"Ay,  ay,"  inli-rjcrtrd  P'onlif,  dryly,  "  ye'll  !»<•  ^rowiii* 
;.;icy  and  stoopit.  Vc'll  no  travel  a<  roHS  flie  warld,  .uid 
hark  aj^a'n,  and  U.  leevin'  wi'  savages,  and  kec|>  tin- 
^t,s(lc  i'  youi'  bones;  "and  he  .shook  his  heiul  with  u 
(  hiK  kic.  ' 

•«  I've  had  f^ood  days  in  the  world,  and  many  a  land 
h.ive  I  se(;  ,  .'lad  many  a  ship  have  trod,  and  I've  Ix-en  a 
hllle  of  the  gentleman,  and  very  nnt(  h  of  the  vaKahond, 
sonifthinf?  of  the  fool,  and  a  hit  |;hiloso)»her  too,  I  ho)H'. 
.  .  .  And  now  I'm  <oming  to  the  time  when  I  nnist 
lay  by  with  my  old  raree  sh(;w  and  flute  ;  and  g(j  i\  > 
ni(»re  to  wander." 

•'  And  to  wanner  nac  niair,"  said   I'ordie,  al>s-»  <  r'dly. 

••  I  did  not  think,"  the  other  (ontimied,  "  tha*  I  ,  ',o(dd 
ever  want  hack  from  your  hands,  what's  miii'  hi-*  has 
been  as  yours  for  many  a  year,  and " 

Rising  suddenly  to  l;is  feet,  I'ordie  hoarsely-interrupted 
him.  "David,"  he  said,  "I  kenned  it  was  (omin'. 
Seven-and-twenty  years  syne,  you  had  .sair  trouble,  and 
your  bairn,  new-born,  was  left  niitherless.  At  that  time 
my  wife  lost  a  bairn  at  its  birth  and  she  went  mad  for  it, 
and  we  took  yours — for  you  were  far  awa',  a  prisoner  o' 
war — and  we  put  it  in  her  airms  and  she  made  it  her  ain, 
nursin*  it  at  her  ain  brcest.  And  it  was  lang  afore  ye  cam 
bar.k ;  and  ye  maun  gang  awa'  again — for  it  was  time  o* 
war.  And  you  said  tac  me,  for  the  wife  ne'er  kenned  it, 
that  the  child  should  Ik;  ours,  for  it  had  grown  like  our 
ain.  and  ye  might  never  come  back.  And  ye  had  mair 
dangers  and  hard  fortunes  ;  and  when  ye  landed  on  Eng- 
land's soil  again  you  had  na  a  bawlx'c;  and  the  bairn  had 
got  to  Ice  us,  and  we  to  loe  her." 


l66 


77/A    CHIEF  FACTOR, 


Hononi  raised  his  hand  in  |)n)tost,  tis  though  the  rcmnu 
branco  of  these  things  hurt  him.  There  was  a  shj^lu 
pause,  and  I'ordie  rontinued  :  ••  And  ye  Inieanie  Hendiu, 
the  Itahan  sliownian,  and  when  site's  a  woman  the  ihmi 
ye'd  tell  lier  a* — eh,  David,  and  ye'd  tak'  her  frae  m. , 
forbye." 

••  Fordie,"  brokenly  said  the  other,  ••  I  did  not  think  I 
should  rome  to  (are  so  nnieh,  but  I'd  give  the  rest  of  mv 
life  to  hear  her  call  njeyf/////*r  once." 

••  1  have  lost  a  son,"  mournfully  responded  the  otlur, 
*•  and  ye  wad  tak'  frae  me  my  dot  hler  too." 

••  You've  l)een  a  good  father  to  her,  I'ordie,  stern  man 
though  you  are." 

Fordie  paced  up  md  down  the  room  twice  or  thritc, 
and  then  pausing  IniTore  the  other,  said,  as  if  speaking  limi 
him, — **  If  ye  think  it  weel,  David,  I'll  gie  her  tae  yc; 
I'll  gie  her  tae  ye — but  think  ye  o*  the  lass  hersel'." 

Benoni  \;ose,  and  laid  a  trembling  hand  on  the  other's 
arm.  '•  I've  Ixicn  David  for  these  few  minutes,  Fordic, 
and  I  have  Iwen  weak — for  I'm  getting  old — and  I  love 
the   lass,  (iod  knows  !     IJut  I  am  wrong.     She  has  had 

trouble  enough.     I'll  not  try  her  further. I've  bcvii 

a  coward  for  a  minute,  Fordie,  but,  please  Heaven, — no 
more  !  " 

There  was  silence  now.  From  the  courtyard  Jean's 
voice  floated  up  through  the  open  window  of  the  room, 
and  another  voice  with  it.  Both  men  caught  their  brcatlis 
in  their  throats. 

"She  shall  never  know  through  me,  Fordie,  while  you 
live,  though  I  told  her  she  should  be  told  my  story  some 
day  ;  but  she'll  be  leaving  us  both,  maybe,  and  'tis  boiler 
as  it  is,  I  doubt  not."     And  Benoni  smiled  sadly  out  to- 


*' ri ebi.es  at  r/f/i  pi.ay: 


167 


\var<ls  the  voices  floating  up  to  thcin.  The  two  incMi  shook 
hiinds  silently. 

ittit  they  were  both  wrong  <-.on(erning  Jean.  She  huh- 
|)C(  ted  the  truth.  And  in  future  days,  when  Ula*  k  Fordie 
\v;ls  in  his  la»t  ilhiesH,  all  was  told,  and  in  losing  one  father 
she  found  another. 

Hut  now  a  thing  more  important  to  her  happiness  was 
near.  It  |>eri>lexed  lujrdie  and  Benoni ;  it  made  havoc 
with  the  ])eaee  of  Venlaw  and  Hrian ;  it  comfielled  into 
ac  lion  all  Jean's  womanliness  and  "hararter. 

Down  in  the  courtyard  Andrew  Venlaw  walked  with 
Jean.  The  weeks  and  months  had  pa.ssed,  and  to-morrow 
a^'ain  was  Beltane  Fair.  The  time  of  Andrew's  leave  was 
ti|>.  He  must  return  to  his  duti(;s  in  that  far-off  region  of 
Hudson's  Ray  or  make  up  his  mind  to  remain  where  he 
wa-s ;  and  to  remain  where  he  was  meant  to  marry  Jean  ; 
and  to  marry  Jean  meant  that  Brian  must  go.  'I'hesc 
things  they  had  not  said  to  each  other,  yet  they  were  in 
the  minds  of  all.  In  the  town  of  late  Andrew's  name  had 
l)cen  coupled  much  with  Jean's,  and  this  they  both  knew, 
and  Black  Fordie  and  Benoni  knew  it,  and  both  of  these 
had  spoken  in  Jean's  presence  concerning  I.cr  and  Andrew, 
as  though  they  were  accepted  of  each  other.  At  last,  by 
a  hundred  little  things,  Andrew  came  to  Ijelieve  that  Jean 
would  not  say  No  to  him  if  he  asked  her.  It  did  not 
make  him  proud ;  it  humbled  him,  because  he  read  the 
true  meaning  of  her  gentle  acquiescence.  Her  afTection, 
her  respect,  her  sense  of  justice  were  with  him,  but  her 
love  was  with  his  comrade. 

"And  now,"  he  said  to  her,  his  mind  at  last  made  up 
after  some  heavy  hours,  "I'm  goin'  back,  Jean,  two  days 
after  Belune." 


(  ; 


i,  :. 


^1 
^1 


:■•'['] 


§ 


'  .Id 


\m 


i1:r 


^11^ 


m^ 


# 


1 68 


TV/A'   CHIEF  FACTOR, 


*•  BacK  whaur,  Andrew  ?  "  she  said,  a  whiteness  spread- 
ing on  her  face. 

"  Back  to  the  land  they  call  *  God's  Country,'  "  said 
he — "  to  the  Arctic  circle,  or  thereabouts." 

She  drew  slightly  from  him,  but  she  did  not  si)eak. 

'*  Have  you  nothing  to  say  to  my  going?"  he  added, 
with  a  painful  smile. 

"  I — I  am  very  sorry  ;  but  must  you  go  ?  " 

*'  There's  only  one  thing  that  would  keep  me,"  he  re- 
plied. 

"  And  what's  that,  Andrew?  "  she  asked. 

"The  love  of  a  woman,"  was  his  reply;  "of  a  good 
woman." 

"  Do  you  mean,  Andrew,  that  if  that — guid  woman 
would  marry  you,  you  would  stay?"  A  greyness  came 
about  her  temples.     It  was  harder  than  she  thought. 

"  Ay,  ay,  lass,"  he  said,  dropping  back  into  the  old  dia- 
lect of  his  youth  :   "  if  she  would  marry  me." 

She  came  slowly  to  him,  and  laid  her  hand  upon  his 
arm.  "Andrew,"  she  said,  "Andrew, — the  woman  — 
will — marry  you." 

His  breast  heaved,  his  arms  twitched  at  his  side,  his 
massive  body  drew  up,  and  he  looked  down  at  her  with  a 
great  yearning. 

"Ay,  ay,  lassie,"  he  responded,  the  roughness  of  feel 
ing  in  his  tone,  "  I  ken  she  would  marry  me.     That  is 
one  thing,   and  it  has  made  me  think  o'  heaven  ;    l)ut 
would  she  love  me,  does  she  love  me,  and  me  alone? 
That  is  anither  thing." 

His  eyes  searched  hers,  dnd  she  dropped  them  before 
him. 

"  She  wad  try  to  loe  ye,  Andrew,"  she  rejoined. 


m  .::<■' 


'*  PEEBLES  AT  THE  PLAY.'' 


"There  is  another  man,"  he  said  witn  a  sigh,  "and 
he  has  a  good  heart.  He  is  generous  and  brave,  and  the 
woman  love  him." 

"Oh,  hush!"  she  said,  and  she  rai.sed  her  fmgers 
towards  hi"*  li|)8,  a  scared  look  in  her  face.  "  Ye  maunna 
siHjak  o*t,"  she  added. 

They  stood  silent,  a  little  away  from  each  other,  for  a 
moment. 

"  Will  you  walk  with  me?  "  he  asked. 

Without  a  word  shi  turned,  and  passed  with  him  into 
the  shadow  of  the  yews.  They  did  not  speak.  Presently, 
Andrew,  looking  out  upon  the  road,  saw  a  figure  coming. 
He  wheeled  upon  her  gently,  and  .said:  "  'J'he  day  after 
Beltane  I  bhall  go." 

She  did  not  instantly  reply,  but  stretched  out  her  hand 
and  raised  her  eyes  to  his,  with  a  look  of  solemn  thankful- 
ness which  he  loved  to  remember  years  after.  But  he 
knew  the  immeasurable  distance  between  friendship  and 
love. 

"  Wait  here,"  he  said ;  "  wait  just  here  for  a  little  while, 
will  you?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  replied,  "  as  lang  as  ye  will ;  but  why  ?  " 

He  did  not  reply  in  words,  but  looked  out  upon  the 
road,  down  which  Brian  was  coming.  She  understood. 
Strong,  deep-natured  as  she  was,  she  shivered  slightly  with 
timidity. 

"  Oh,  no,  no,  not  now,  Andrew,"  she  urged. 

But  he,  wit!  out  a  word,  and  with  a  grave  courtesy,  lifted 
her  hand  to  his  lips,  and,  with  head  uncovered,  drew  away 
from  her.  He  walked  steadily  on  till  he  met  Brian.  He 
paused  for  a  moment,  stretched  out  his  hand,  and  said : 
"  She  is  waiting  for  you,  Brian,  in  the  yews  below." 


170 


r//E  CHIEF  FACTOR, 


"Waiting — for  me — Venlaw?"  said  Brian,  growing 
pale. 

"  I  am  going  away  to  the  Company's  land  two  days  after 
Beltane,  but  you'll  be  staying  here." 

"  ril — be  staying — here,"  Brian  repeated,  as  the  matter 
dawned  upon  him.  He  could  say  no  more ;  but  the  two 
men  caught  hands,  and  parted  suddenly,  both  to  begin  life 
again. 

An  hour  after,  Andrew  stood  by  the  old  Dominie's  grave 
looking  down  at  it  with  a  gentle  sadness,  gentle  and  sad  as 
only  a  strong  man  can  be.  He  had  squared  all  accounts. 
The  Dominie's  wishes  had  been  fulfilled.  The  money  left 
him  he  had  handed  over  to  Katie  Dryhope  and  her  sister 
Maggie.  He  had  refused  his  own  happiness  from  a  high 
sense  of  justice.  There  was  nothing  more  to  do  but  to  go 
away.     He  thought  that  as  he  stood  by  the  grave. 

And  Brian  Kingley  walked  with  Jean,  his  arm  about  her, 
in  the  shadows  of  the  yews. 


»./-•' 


J   , 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


"the    bend   0*   THE  CRAG.'* 


The  next  morning  was  Beltane  Fair.  Braithen  was 
(lancing  upon  the  green.  There  were  fiddlers  many,  but 
you  could  hear  above  the  jaunty  scraping  of  the  catgut  the 
soft  joyful  note  of  a  flute.  It  seemed  to  have  caught  an 
exhilarating  something  from  the  warm  breeze,  which, 
sweci)ing  across  the  braes  and  down  the  wimpling  Shiel, 
ran  round  the  valley  where  Brrithen  lay,  blithely  with  the 
sunshine.  Now  and  then  it  caught  the  gay  ribands  of  some 
laughing  lass,  or  lifted,  always  modestly,  the  simple  folds 
of  a  pretty  skirt.  And  the  loose  flowing  hair  of  man  and 
woman,  it  blew  in  warm  enjoyment  along  the  undulations 
of  the  dance.  Alx)ut  old  Benoni's  raree  show  boys  sat 
munching  gingerbread.  Horsemen  moved  in  and  out,  and 
on  the  stroke  of  noon  a  troop  of  His  Majesty's  cavalry 
swung  slowly  thrcugh  the  streets,  bringing  with  them  some 
gay  prisoners  of  war,  who  were  being  transferred  from  a 
post  further  south  to  Braithen.  It  seemed  almost  the  same 
( rowd  that  we  saw  twelve  years  before.  It  might,  indeed, 
have  seemed  the  same  day,  save  that  Benoni's  hair  was 
greyer  and  his  cheek  more  wrinkled,  though  his  eye  was 
just  as  clear.  And  it  did  not  grow  duller  because  he  heard 
tlie  gossiping  of  some  dames  behind  him  discussing  the  for- 
tunes of  one  very  dear  to  him.  The  twinkle  in  it,  indeed, 
had  something  a  little  ironical.  But  the  groups  went 
dancing  on  before  him,  and  everyone  said  that  Benoni  had 


*'.    M 


1/2 


THE   CHIEF  FACTOR. 


i=;ll 


:f 


It 


never  played  so  well.  From  the  way  he  looked  to  right 
and  left  from  time  to  time,  it  was  clear  he  was  expecting 
somebody ;  and  one  had  known  when  his  expectations 
were  fulfilled  by  the  very  immediate  impulse  he  gave  to 
his  music. 

Presently  among  the  gossiping  and  staring  crowd  there 
passed  Jean  and  Brian  followed  by  John  Fordie  and 
Andrew  Venlaw.  They  came  into  the  circle  of  dancers. 
Brian  led  Jean  out  gravely  into  the  centre,  and  danced  a 
measure  with  her  lightly  yet  sedately.  And  when  it  was 
finished,  with  all  eyes  upon  them,  all  dancing  stopped 
around  them,  he  kissed  her  full  upon  the  mouth  :  and 
that  was  how  Braithen  knewr  that  Brian  Kingley  and  Jean 
Fordie  were  to  marry. 

When  Venlaw  turned  away  from  Beltane  Fair  and 
bade  his  friends  good-bye,  it  seemed  that  there  was 
nothing  left  to  do.  The  next  day  he  visited  one  by  one 
old  spots  familiar  to  him  as  boy  and  man.  At  last  he 
climbed  Margaret's  Brae,  where  he  had  herded  sheep  as 
a  lad.  Every  turn  of  it,  every  hillock  and  hollow,  he 
knew.  From  it,  standing  among  the  broom  and  heather, 
he  had  looked  down  into  the  sparse  valley,  and  up  along 
the  wide  track  in  the  hills  leading  to  the  Border  and 
beyond.  He  had  peopled  every  point  in  the  compass. 
There  were  few  events  of  history  or  tradition  which  he 
had  not  then  given  their  proper  place,  North,  South, 
East,  and  West.  He  knew  what  Douglas  had  travelled 
along  the  Shiel  to  this  castle,  what  Stuart  had  lost  his 
way  in  the  mists  at  the  Weddiner's  Hope,  what  great 
abbot  and  his  band  of  monks  had  hidden  in  this  covert 
from  their  persecutors.  His  Latin  grammar  and  his  Vir- 
gil v^ere  in  one  pocket,  and  a  Scottish  history  in  another : 


"  THE  BEND   0'  THE   CRAG. 


173 


and  then  he  was  full  of  dreams.  Although  he  moved 
among  the  people  of  Braithen  and  the  Shiel  Valley,  he 
lived  his  own  life  apart  from  them,  and  saw  them  but  in 
a  dream.  His  real  world  was  the  people  of  his  books — 
their  lives  were  nearer  to  him.  It  was  only  when  he 
came  to  manhood  that  the  histories  of  his  neighbours 
began  to  interest  him  ;  that  he  waked  to  what  he  felt  for 
Jean  Fordie  ;  that  all  he  owed  the  Dominie  was  brought 
home  to  him  (youth  is  selfish) :  and  then  the  crash  of  his 
early  hopes  came,  and  he  went  out  an  exile. 

Now,  looking  at  the  old  scenes  for  the  last  time,  as 
he  thought,  he  was  brave  enough  to  smile  at  the  remem- 
brances of  his  young  ambitions  and  desires.  He  had 
arrived  at  that  state  where  he  could  get  perspective  of 
himself  even,  and  view  himself  and  life  dispassionately, 
and  with  a  fine  sense  of  justice.  He  knew  that  his  early 
hopes  had  been  a  good  thing  for  him,  even  though  they 
had  gone  aglee.  He  pictured  himself  as  a  boy,  book  on 
knee,  struggling  with  a  Greek  verb  :  the  braw  wind  and 
sunshine  round  him.  Then  came  the  friends  of  his  boy- 
hood, lads  and  lasses  :  now  grown  men  and  women,  and 
mostly  living  \u  the  valley  beneath,  with  circumscribed 
wishes  and  life,  bringing  up  children  as  themselves  had 
been  brought  up — austerely  yet  kindly.  He  let  his  eyes 
wander  from  house  to  house  on  brae  and  in  hollow. 
The  sight  of  children  playing  at  the  doors  brought  a 
strange  feeling  to  him.  He  walked  up  Jind  down,  and 
blew  a  long  breath  through  his  beard,  thinking  hard. 

"  Aweel,"  he  said  aloud,  lovingly  falling  into  the  raw, 
home-like  speech  of  the  Border,  *^  tis  an  empty  hairth- 
stane  '11  be  yours,  Andrew  Venlaw,  for  guid  and  a'. 
You'll  just  be  standin'  alane  before  the  fire,  and  *11  no 


ia 


174 


THE   CHIEF  FACTOR. 


^  If 


have  to  fend  for  ane  but  the  stranger  and  the  traiveller 
within  your  gates  ;  there'll  be  nane  of  your  bluid  or 
bane  in  this  land  or  that,  to  make  claim  upon  you. 
Aweel,  that's  as  it  is,  and  ane  maun  gang  the  gait  !  " 

It  was  at  this  point  that  his  eyes  fell  upon  a  cottage, 
standing  a  little  apart  from  others  on  the  top  of  a  brae. 
Eisie  Garvan  lived  there.  He  started,  and  caught  his 
beard  in  his  fingers  ;  his  face  flushed.  It  came  to  him 
now  that  he  had  only  seen  Elsie  once  or  twice  since  his 
return,  and  the'idiot  Pete,  not  at  all.  He  was  ashamed. 
He  had  thought  himself  a  just  man,  and  he  had,  in  spite 
of  himself,  felt  that  his  part  in  the  sore  game  had  been 
hardest  of  all — the  last  strong  tr?ce  of  egotism  in  his 
life.  Now  it  came  to  him  how  greater  must  be  the  suffer- 
ing of  this  woman,  who  had  no  refuge  of  forgetfulness, 
no  great  distracting  duties,  such  as  his,  to  take  the  place 
of  memory  and  regret.  In  the  burgh  where  her  wrong- 
doing was  known  (she  had,  with  the  almost  fierce  bravery 
of  her  nature,  t  iken  no  pains  to  conceal  the  injury 
she  had  done  Venlaw  and  Brian  and  Jean — she  rather 
endured  the  public  knowledge  of  it  as  a  penance)  she 
must  live  on  and  on,  facing  her  hard  lif:?,  her  only  close 
companion  an  idiot,  whom  she  coulc*  never  leave,  to 
whom  she  must  be  what  she  always  had  been — sister 
and  mother.  In  the  crash  of  penalties  she  was  the  great- 
est victim.  Her  nature  was  passionate  and  strong,  anJ 
she  would  not  be  able  to  deal  gently  with  her  con- 
science. She  had  never  loved  but  one  man,  and  she  had 
vronged  him.  She  must  always  love  him,  and  the  pros- 
pect was  cheerless  and  unrelieved  by  any  hope.  Jean 
ha  1  not  forgotte.i  her  since  Andrew  and  Brian  had  re- 
Utrned  ,   she  had  come  to  her  as  of  old.     And  Elsie  was 


'•  THE  BEND  0*  THE  CRAG:* 


175 


able  to  appear  unmoved  before  the  little  drama,  from 
which  she  now  had  withdrawn,  as  she  believed,  forever. 
She  was  even  able  to  deceive  Jean  into  thinking  that  she 
had  no  longer  love  for  Venlaw,  and  that  she  accepted  her 
life  calmly.  But  many  a  time  Pete,  fumbling  with  his  pipe, 
looked  up  at  her,  and  out  of  his  huge  disordered  intel- 
ligence spied  what  was  hid  from  others.  Then  he  would 
shamble  to  his  feet,  sidle  to  her,  pull  at  her  dress,  and 
say  :  "  Puir  Else,  puir  Else  !  Gang  greet  intil  the  fire — 
thot'll  dry  een — droon  the  rain  i*  the  fire,  an'  it's  awa*. 
Do  ye  no  ken  God's  abune  wi'  the  white  horses  ?  —  " 

None  other  but  Elsie  could  have  interpreted  his 
strange  speech ;  but  to  her  there  was  in  it  the  flotsam  of  a 
great  wisdom  which  had  been  smothered  on  its  way  into 
the  world,  and  could  now  only  speak  through  suffocating 
but  not  destroying  folds.  To  others  Pete  was  a  painful 
sight ;  but  his  wet,  sagging  lips  she  dried  as  would  a 
mother  her  sucking  infant's,  and  fended  him  uncom- 
plainingly from  his  childhood,  till  now,  at  seventeen  years 
of  age,  he  was  almost  as  great  a  care  as  when  their 
mother,  dying,  gave  him  to  her  with  the  words  :  "  Elsie, 
ye'll  no  forsake  the  bairn  till  he  gaes  doon  tae  the  rk- 
yard — an'  the  Laird  God  wull  haud  ye  in  the  hoi  .  o' 
His  han*  for  it ;  an'  ye'll  no  fash  yersel  aboot  the  id  o* 
it.     I  hae  the  word  o'  the  A'michty  God." 

Venlaw  stood  very  still  for  some  time,  his  eyes  '  ent  on 
the  cottage.  Presently  a  strange  smile  played  a  out  his 
lips,  and  he  spoke  :  "  *  Gang  the  bend  o'  the  crag,'  Andrew 
Venlaw."  This  was  an  old  saying  in  the  Shiel  Valley. 
There  was  in  the  hills  overhanging  the  river  a  difficult  trail 
round  a  crag.  At  one  spot  a  strong  leap  must  be  made  at 
,a  corner,  or  else  a  longer  way  followed.     Thus  it  wa  .  the 


t| 


176 


r//E   CHIEF  FACTOR. 


■4 'VI 


t 


% 


custom  to  say,  when  there  was  a  question  of  half-measures, 
"  Gang  the  bend  o'  the  crag."  It  was  not  in  Venlaw  to 
go  half-way  with  anything.  His  mind  worked  slowly, 
but  when  it  was  made  up,  it  was  stable  and  convincing. 
From  the  cottage  he  glanced  now  to  the  mill  down  by 
the  Shiel,  and  said,  presently  :  "  She'll  be  there  yet,  may- 
be, for  'tis  not  quitting-time  "  ;  and  descended  the  brae 
leisurely  towards  the  river.  He  went  to  the  mill,  and 
met  the  foreman  at  the  door.  He  had  seen  something 
of  the  foreman  since  his  return,  for  it  was  he  who  was 
to  marry  Maggie  Dryhope ;  and  the  man  and  his  sweet- 
heart v/ere  very  grateful  to  Venlaw,  because  he  had 
handed  over  to  them  Maggie's  unlooked-for  share  of  the 
Donunie's  property. 

**  It's  mony  a  day  syne  ye  steppit  ower  this  threshold. 
Master  Venlaw,"  said  the  foreman  ;  "  but  there's  a  bit 
welcome  for  ye,  if  ye'll  gae  intil  the  wee  hole  i'  the  wa'  I 
ca'  mine." 

Venlasv  shook  him  by  the  hand,  but  declined  his  offer. 
"  Is  Elsie  Garvan  here  ? "  he  said. 

"She's  n  >  here  the  noo,"  was  the  reply;  "she's  jiiist 
gane  doon  the  burn  tae  the  toon.  As  gran'  a  lassie  tlvit, 
wi'  her  fingers,  as  ever  tossed  a  shuttle,  ahy.  I  hae  seen 
the  day  when  I  wad  hae  sent  her  awa  for  her  deil's  tem- 
per, an'  thot's  no  sae  lang  syne  ;  but  noo  ye'll  traivel  frae 
here  tae  Glasgae  an'  ye'll  no  put  een  on  a  heid  sac 
canny  an*  a  tongue  sae  still  whatever.  Ahy,  Master 
Venlaw,  but  a  braw  pipe  may  dreel  sairly  whiles,  an'  be 
a  braw  pipe  for  a'  thot.  Up  she  snatchit  the  knife  and 
carvit  the  tweed  c'  the  loom,  an'  to  the  deil  wi'  the  end 
o'  it !  But  thot's  mony  a  day  gane,  an'  she  comes  an' 
gaes  a  weel-mannered  lassie,  an'  '11  hae  her  work  dune* 


"  THE  BEND  &   THE   CRAG:* 


177 


ined  his  offer. 


an'  be  aff  to  the  burgh  tae  her  daft-laddie  afore  the  bell 
ca's  'slow  doon  !*  Ahy,  but  there's  grace  o'  God  i*  the 
warld,  Master  Venlaw." 

Venlaw  said  that  he  was  going  back  to  the  Hudson's 
Bay  Country,  and  that  he  had  come  to  say  good-bye  to 
Elsie  Garvan  before  he  went  ;  foi,  as  he  said,  she  had 
been  an  old  friend  of  his.  Venlaw  had  come  to  the  mill 
purposely,  for  he  wished  to  show  to  the  people  that, 
whatever  story  might  be  abroad  as  to  Elsie's  treatment 
of  him  and  Jean,  he  shared  in  no  reproach  against  her. 
I  le  had  intended  walkmg  home  from  the  mill  with  her. 
He  now  spoke  in  friendly  terms  of  her  and  of  her  devo- 
tion to  the  idiot.  The  foreman  said  that  she  would 
probably  be  found  at  her  cottage  ;  and  they  parted,  after 
Venlaw  had  taken  a  peep  into  the  mill,  and  seen  the 
gills  and  men  at  work,  wondering  at  the  sa  k-  time  if  he 
would  ever  see  a  sight  like  that  again  in  the  wottd  :  for, 
as  he  laughingly  said  to  the  foreman,  "  It's  no  steppin' 
to  Margaret's  Brae  to  trudge  to  the  Arctic  Circle." 

When  he  got  to  Elsie's  cottage,  he  knocked,  and,  get- 
ting a  faint  call  to  come  in,  entered.  Old  Jessie,  who 
for  years  had  cared  for  Pete  when  Elsie  was  away,  sat  in 
a  corner,  crooning,  her  chin  upon  her  staff.  The  idiot 
sat  on  the  hearthstone  at  his  pastime  of  blowing  bubbles. 
Old  Jessie  shided  her  eyes  with  her  hand,  and  called 
a  quavering  int[uiry  at  Venlaw.  Venlaw  came  to  her, 
shook  her  hand,  and  put  a  silver  piece  in  it,  saying : 
"  Ye'll  no  be  forgettin'  Andy  Venlaw,  granny ;  the  lad 
that  brocht  your  heifer  back  frae  the  Black  Bog." 

The  old  woman  came  to  her  feet  with  the  angular 
awkwardness  of  age,  and  blinking  at  him  with  her  watery 
eyes,  and  feeling  for  his  hands,  said  :  "  Eh,  eh,  Andy 


I 


^ 


•it 


;    f 


178 


Thy  CHIEF  FACTOR. 


Venlaw,  Andy  Venlaw  !  thot  fetchit  the  heefer  frae  the 
Black  Bog,  and  milkit  her  whiles  I  makit  the  parritch  ! 
**Ahy,"  she  added  with  a  chuckle,  "  them  was  gran'  par- 
ritch that  break  o'  day.  An'  ye  hae  coom  back  to  thae  bon- 
nie  kentrie  !  Weel,  weel,  it's  no  sae  lang — I  ken  it  was 
when  that  lad  o'  Fordie's  slippit  through  the  ban's  o'  the 
bailie.  Weel,  weel — "  Here  Venlaw  tried  to  get  away 
from  her  to  speak  to  the  idiot,  but  she  held  him  fast  by  the 
arms,  and  gabbled  on  :  "  Ay,  ay,  an'  what  does  the  Bulk 
say, — Ye're  no  to  wanner  into  by  and  forbidden  paths ; 
an'  ye're  to  come  back  frae  the  husks  an'  the  swine  tae 
your  Faither's  hoose.  O,  ay,  I  ken  weel  aboot  the  h::rcr 
frae  the  Black  Bog ;  O,  ay,  an'  them  parritch  at  break 
o'  day — an'  Elsie  had  a  shairp  tongue  ance  upo'  a  time. 
Ahy,  but  it's  no  sae  shairp  i'  ye're  lug  the  noo." 

Venlaw  gently  but  firmly  released  himself  from  the 
old  woman,  and,  putting  another  silver  piece  in  her 
hand,  said  :  "  There  now,  granny,  gang  an'  get  yoursel 
a  bit  sup,  an'  I'll  stay  watch  the  daft  laddie  till  Elsie 
comes.  Gang  awa,  gang  awa  noo,  granny."  He  adroitly 
got  tier  towards  the  door.  She  kept  shuffling  the  silver 
pieces  in  her  fingers,  and  muttering  gleefully  over  them, 
till  the  door  was  opened,  and  then  she  came  back  a 
step,  and  turned  round  towards  the  idiot,  who  had  sat 
watching  them  heedlessly  as  he  blew  the  bubbles. 

"Hoot,  ye  wobbling  daft,"  she  quavered;  "Andy 
Venlaw,  that's  been  a  wannticr  H'se  Ishmael,  hae  can'' 
back  frae  the  ootcast  lands,  an*  he's  to  watch  ower  ye, 
ye  ken,  ye  droonin'  carl !  An'  ye'U  bide  wi*  ye're  blub- 
bers till  Elsie's  back,  ye  ken,  an' " 

But  Andrew  got  her  outside,  and  sent  her  away  chuck- 
ling over  her  silver  pieces.     Then  he  came  over  and 


■^rc?^,. 


••  THE  BEND   0'   THE   CK/tCr 


179 


30ot  the  h::fcr 


drew  a  chair  near  the  idiot.  Pete  took  no  special  heed 
of  him,  but  still  kept  looking  at  him,  as  he  tossed  the 
filmy  globes  about  him.  Yet  the  look  was  not  without 
intelligence.  He  was  occupied  with  his  own  world — 
absorbed  in  it :  he  saw  the  other  world — Venlaw's  world 
— as  one  sitting  on  an  Olympus  might  the  dwellers  in 
the  valleys :  as  one  engaged  with  great  designs  might 
watch  a  play  and  listen  to  soft  music,  seeing  and  hear- 
ing, pleased  yet  not  concerned.  Venlaw  leaned  his 
elbows  on  his  knees  and  watched  the  lad,  wondering, 
musing.  The  great  head  tumbled  about  on  the  narrow 
shoulders,  the  big  eyes  rolled,  the  thin,  almost  fine  white 
hands  stumbled  about  the  pipe-stem,  the  bare  feet  were 
crossed,  as  their  owner  squatted. 

Venla«v  mused  to  himself.  "  So  big,  so  big  it  toppled, 
and  foolishness  ran  in  and  rioted,  and  now  God's  sense 
only  plays  hide-anc'-seek  in  him.  But  I  wonder  how 
much  he  thinks,  after  all !  .  .  .  And  what  a  burden 
for  the  lassie — what  a  burden  !  And  no  one  to  help  her, 
and  nothing  to  look  forward  to,  but  this  poor  daft  get- 
ting older  and  older.  And  if  anything  happened  to  her, 
it'd  go  sore  to  her  heart  to  think  there  was  none  whose 
duty  it  was  to  care  for  him.  Indeed,  but  she's  had  '  a 
sair  gait  tae  gae  ' ;  poor  lassie  ! " 

Suddenly  he  pulled  himself  up  with  a  thought.  He 
remembered  how,  in  the  Arctic  country,  he  had  re- 
garded two  people  y.'ith  hatred — Brian  and  Elsie.  As 
on  Margaret's  Brjie,  he  smiled  now  to  think  how  all 
that  was  changed  :  how  hatred  had  gone  from  him,  and 
he  and  Brian  were  as  brothers,  and  for  Elsie  herself 
there  were  only  kind  thoughts.  Just  here  it  came 
home  to  him  with  great  force  how  much  this  woman  had 


\ 


•  ii 


1 

h 

■) 
I 

i, 

1! 

( 

1 

i 

■i 

'  i 

1 

i  ll 

1 

1     Ml  * 

K'.. 

i8o 


r//£   CHIEF  FACTOR,         ^ 


loved  him  in  his  ear!v  manhood,  and  how  he  had  so  little 
appreciated  the  love.  As  most  mature  men  do,  he  had 
come  to  know  how  great  a  thing  it  is  to  have  been  given 
an  absorbing  love — so  much  counterfeited.  When  a 
man  gets  to  be  thirty-five  years  or  thereabouts,  he  realizes 
what  it  is  to  possess  the  unchangeable  devotion  of  any 
one  human  being :  and  if  it  is  a  woman's  devotion,  so 
much  the  more  to  him.  Once  he  had  almost  felt  it  an 
injury  that  Elsie  should  show  preference  for  him  :  now  he 
was,  with  larger  mind,  thankful  for  it.  He  understood 
how  great  her  love  must  have  been  for  him,  that  she 
could  do  what  every  Scotswoman  loathes — betray  the 
fugitive  from  justice  and  bear  false  evidence  :  as  she 
had  done  with  Bruce  and  Jean  and  Brian  and  himself. 
He  was  wise  enough  to  see  now  that  the  temptation  was 
a  tremendous  one  :  that,  brought  up  as  she  had  been, 
almost  alone,  with  a  wilful  passionate  nature,  she  had  in 
a  wild  moment  yielded  to  her  hunger  for  Venlaw's  affec- 
tion and  her  bitter  chagrin  and  disappointment,  and  had 
struck  a  mad  blow,  from  which  came  a  hard  punish- 
ment. What  she  was  now  he  knew  :  she  had  conquered 
herself.  Jean's  friendship  had  been  to  her  her  one 
chance  of  return  from  that  morose  land  of  Remorse  and 
Loneliness  where  she  had  lived  so  much  and  bitterly 
without  companionship.  Hers  was  not  a  diffusing  nature : 
she  was  not  capable  of  giving  friendship  to  many  :  and 
for  love, — the  die  was  cast  once  for  all !  She  was  capa- 
ble of  great  courage  and  decision.  Had  she  been  a 
Highland  chieftainess,  she  were  as  good  a  soldier  as  the 
best :  fearless,  severe  to  punish,  quick  in  mercy,  noble 
and  eager  in  attachment ;  but,  where  wrong  to  one  she 
loved  was  concerned,  as  unforgiving  as  Rob  Roy's  wife. 


<l 


THE  BEND  a   THE  CRACr 


i8i 


Her  wrong-doing  had,  however,  softened  her,  though 
it  would  have  hardened  her  if  Jean  had  not  become 
her  friend — without  Jean  she  would  not  have  believed 
in  herself,  and  have  sunk  into  sullenness  and  isolation, 
with  no  hopes  and  less  joy  in  life. 

Venlaw  guessed  at  all  this  pretty  accurately,  for  though 
he  had  not  had  much  to  do  with  women  in  his  life,  his 
experience  had  been  sufliciently  dramatic,  and  power- 
ful in  its  consequences,  to  make  his  instincts  keen.  He 
began  almost  at  once  to  find  a  balm  for  his  own  disap- 
j)ointment  and  sacrifice  in  thinking  how  much  harder 
was  Elsie's  lot  :  to  enjoy  the  rare  fruits  of  unselfishness, 
though  even  yet  he  did  not  know  how  far  his  altruism 
would  carry  him. 

He  leaned  over  and  dropped  his  fingers  on  the 
idiot's  shoulder.  "  Laddie,"  said  he,  "  don't  you  know 
me?" 

The  huge  disordered  head  swung  heavily  in  a  rain- 
l)ow  of  bubbles,  and  the  lolling  lips  spluttered  :  but  ut 
first  there  was  no  answer.  Venlaw  ran  his  fingers  through 
the  bushy  hair  of  the  boy,  then,  after  a  moment,  added  : 
"  Good  Pete,  good  laddie  !  " 

The  idiot  paused,  took  the  pipe  from  his  mouth,  and, 
without  looking  at  the  other,  answered  :  "  Puir  Else — 
(iang  doon  tae  the  kirkyard — 

"  '  O  the  bairnie  gaed  doon  tae  the  burn, 
And  the  burn  it  gaed  oop  tae  the  crag, 
And  wae  tae  the  bairnie  ! ' 

Aweel,  aweel — puir  Else — puir  Pete  ! " 

He  sang  the  old  ditty  to  a  broken  tune,  but  suddenly 
stopped  short  and  threw  himself  forward  on  the  floor, 


I 


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IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


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1.25 


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2.0 


1.4 


1.8 


1.6 


Photographic 

Sciences 
Corporation 


V^  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14580 

(716)  872-4503 


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182 


TITE  CHIEF  FACTOR. 


his  head  in  his  arms,  with  a  gruesome  sob.  Venlaw,  in 
spite  of  himself,  was  moved  by  the  uncanny  grief,  and 
it  struck  him  strangely  that  there  seemed — what  he 
had  not  thought  possible — a  sane,  pitiful  sort  of  feel- 
ing in  the  words  and  tones  of  the  lad.  He  stooped 
and  raised  him,  speaking  kindly ;  but  now  the  i^iot 
seemed  to  have  forgotten  his  trouble,  for  he  suddenly 
chuckled,  groped  for  his  pipe,  and  was  soon  blowing 
bubbles  as  gayly  as  before,  having  ceased  to  notice 
Venlaw.  Once  only  he  said,  without  looking  at  Venlaw, 
— **  The  wheel's  roon  whiles  the  burn  gaes — There's 
naebody  weavin'  the  day — Puir  Else — Flee  awa — Flee 


awa 


!. 


Pete  was  talking  in  those  symbols  which  are  as  the 
ciphers  and  forms  of  the  soul,  when  it  first  telegraphs 
to  the  mind :  that  native  personal  speech,  which  must 
be  translated  to  the  unaccustomed  ear.  Elsie  had 
been  with  Pete  so  long  that  she  could  trace  the  sane 
suggestions  in  the  vague  fragments.  The  words  kept 
ringing  in  Venlaw 's  ears,  meaningless  yet  weird  and 
impressive.  As  he  sat  watching  the  lad,  the  door 
opened  and  Elsie  entered.  When  she  saw  Venlaw  she 
gave  a  low  cry  and  stood  still.  He  rose  and  came 
forward. 

"  I've  been  sitting  with  the  laddie,  Elsie.  I  told  Jessie 
she  might  go  and  gossip  with  the  neighbours :  for  I've 
just  come  a  visit  to  yourself." 

"  I'm  glad  tae  see  you,  Andrew,  though  'tis  sae  mony 
a  year  syne  we  crackit  speech  thegither,  I'm  no  sure 
you'll  juist  unnerstan*  sic  raw  words  as  mine.  For  I'm 
no  like  Jean  Fordie,  wi*  a  goold  tip  tae  my  tongue,  an' 
wisdom  ahint  that,  an*  the  gran'  English   whiles— sic 


"  THE  BEND  ff  THE  CRAG." 


183 


a  guid,^  guid  frien'  she  hae  been  tae  me,  Andrew 
Venlaw!"  ,.       ,       :        c.        . 

"  Ay,  Elsie,  a  gran'  woman  as  ye  tell't,  and  speech  like 
nane  ither  i'  the  Borderside :  and  a  guid  frien'  is  she  tae 
all  that  wulls  her  sae  :  and  happy  days  come  tae  her  noo, 
which  I  hae  no  doot  of,  syne  things  are  as  they  are  f — 
And  so  ye  ken,  Elsie,  I  hae  nane  forgottin'  the  bonnie 
Scotch!"  

"  It's  lang  syne  ye  talkit  wi'  ane  that'd  be  mair  glad 
tae  hear  it,  Andrew,  and  to  say  tae  ye  and  Jean  Fordie,  noo 
that  ye're  gaun  tae  stan'  han'  in  han'  i'  the  kirk,  that 
I'm  thankfu'  ye  hae  come  thegither  again  for  ance  and 
for  a'."     She  spoke  with  a  forced  brightness. 

"  Elsie,"  said  he  solemnly,  "  Jean  Fordie  is  gaen  to 
stand  i'  the  kirk,  but  no  wi'  Andrew  Venlaw :  for  that 
wad  be  a  sin,  she  lovin'  anither  man." 

The  news  was  so  sudden  to  Elsie,  so  different  from 
what  she  expected,  that  she  drew  back  with  a  sort  of 
shudder,  and  grasped  a  chair  to  steady  herself.  But  in- 
stantly she  recovered,  and,  as  if  to  give  herself  time  for 
composure,  turned  away,  and,  taking  off  her  bonnet,  began 
to  busy  herself  in  setting  out  dishes  on  the  table.  Pres- 
ently she  said  :  "  I  didna  think  but  what  she  lo'ed  you, 
after  a',  Andrew ;  an'  I'll  no  speak  a  word  that'd  mak' 
her  less  an  angel,  but  ye  ken  that  ye  hae  waited  lang — 
an'  ye're  a  guid  man,  Andrew  !  " 

"  It's  the  way  wi'  the  world,  Elsie,"  he  answered  ; 
"  and  it's  better  that  twa  should  be  gay  than  three 
greetin'." 

She  did  not  reply  to  this,  but  busied  herself  in  mak- 
ing tea  on  the  fire.  Venlaw  watched  her.  He  wondered 
to  see  how  much  she  had  changed.     There  was  the  same 


P 


■ii'-l 


184 


THE   CHIEF  FACTOR. 


.,  Strong  movement,  the  same  slumbering  passion  in  the 
face  ;  but  over  all  there  had  come  a  quiet,  a  sense  of 
mastery,  which  made  her  almost  eloquent  in  feature, 
and  reduced  the  rather  masculine  vigour  of  her  body. 
Venlaw  rose  to  his  feet,  went  to  the  window,  looked  out, 
came  back,  and  sat  down  again.  There  was  something 
on  his  mind ;  he  was  debating  some  problem  that  gave 
his  eyes  a  brooding  look.  In  a  kind  of  dream  he  saw  the 
idiot  pull  Elsie's  dress  and  say :  "  The  wheel  gaes  roon 
wi'  the  burn — Whustle,  whustle,  an*  ye'll  no  hear — Puir 
Else — Gang  doon,  gang  doon  tae  the  kirkyard — Flee 
awa!  " 

Elsie  turned  sharply  and  looked  at  the  idiot,  who 
rubbed  his  loose  cheek  against  her  dress.  Suddenly  he 
dropped  his  pipe  to  the  floor,  breaking  it  in  pieces  :  and 
then,  as  before,  he  threw  himself  forward  on  the  hearth- 
stone with  an  uncanny  wail.  -  .      •  ' 

Elsie  stooped  and  lifted  his  head  against  her  knee. 
"  He's  no  like  this  aften,  ye  ken,"  she  said  :  "  I  canna 
tell  wha's  cam  tae  him  ;  but  I  dinna  like  it,  for  he  hae  a 
-  wisdom  o'  his  ain,  puir  laddie  !  " 

Presently  the  idiot  ceased  to  make  any  sound,  his 
eyes  closed,  and  he  went  to  sleep.  Elsie  drew  a  blanket 
from  a  corner  of  the  fireside,  and  placed  it  beneath  his 
head  ;  and  then,  with  the  broken  pieces  of  his  pipe  about 
him,  and  the  light  from  the  fire  playing  on  his  heavy  face 
and  mop  of  hair,  the  idiot  slept. 

For  a  time  Venlaw  and  Elsie  drank  their  basins  of  tea 
in  silence.  "  I  have  a  word  to  say  to  you,  Elsie,"  Ven- 
law said, ''and  I'll " 

She  interrupted  him.  "  I  hae  a  word  t'  speak  tae  ye, 
Andrew  Venlaw  :  word  which  weel  had  ben  said  afore  : 


"  THE  BEND   0'   THE  CRAG." 


185 


but  'tis  richt  it  be  said  the  noo. — Ye'll  gang  awa',  nae 
doot,  tae  the  far  kentrie,  an'  ye'll  no  be  comin'  back  ;  an' 
I  wad  say  tae  ye,  that  what  ill  I  ance  did  ye,  I  hae 
fretted  ower  till  naething  but  sorrow's  wi*  me.  An'  I  wad 
that  ye'd  forgie  me,  an'  say  it  tae  me  forby." 

She  spoke  steadily,  her  eyes  also  resting  on  him  stead- 
ily. "I  hae  naething  to  forgie,  Elsie,"  he  said  ;  "nae- 
thing but  what's  forgi'en  twa  years  agane  :  an'  I  wad  be 
guid  frien's  wi  you  as  we  were  lang  syne  ;  guid  frien's, 
and  mair ! "  rr  ~         ■'       . 

Something  was  working  in  her  throat,  and  she  could 
not  speak  all  at  once.  She  understood  that  he  forgave 
her,  that  he  wished  to  be  good  friends  with  her ;  but 
she  did  not  understand  the  full  force  of  his  words.  "  It 
is  my  wull,  as  the  Laird  God  kens,"  she  said,  "  tae  be 
ye're  frien*,  Andrew  Venlaw,  whether  ye  be  in  the  wild 
Northland,  or  the  Shielie  Valley.  An'  I'll  gang  the 
way  wi'  a  lichter  bosom  for  the  kind  words  ye've 
spoke." 

She  stilled  and  clasped  her  hands  in  front  of  her  on 
the  table,  and  bent  her  head,  lest  he  should  see  the  look 
in  her  face.  Now  he  said  :  "  How  auld  is  the  laddie, 
Elsie  ? " 

"  Juist  eichteen  years,  come  three  days  after  Bel- 
tane." 

"  And  in  the  winter  does  he  weary  wi'  the  cauld  ? " 

"  Nae,  the  puir  laddie  lo'es  the  cauld  weel ;  ay,  mair 
than  the  fire."  ^  .?    >  v       ^       ,      v 

"Did  ye  ever  tak'  him  a  lang  journey  ? " 

"  Doon  the  valley  tae  Glaishen,  an'  ower  the  hills  tae 
Kye — nae  mair." 

Andrew  got  to  his  feet,  came  over,  and  stood  beside 


f  I 


186 


THE   CHIEF  FACTOR. 


y,L 


her.  "Elsie,"  said  he,  "I  wad  hae  the  laddie  gae  a 
lang  journey,  an'  I  wad  hae  ye  come  wi'  him  an'  ye  wull ; 
for,  lass,  I'm  gaen  back  tae  a  lonely  land,  an'  I'd  hae 
frien's  wi'  me,  that'd  stay  wi'  me  for  guid  or  ill  till  the 
end  o*  it  a'. — Will  ye  no  come,  Elsie  ? " 

She  rose  with  a  frightened  sort  of  look,  and  drew 
away  from  him,  her  hands  nervously  opening  and  shut- 
ting at  her  sides.  "  I  dinna  ken  what's  i'  you.*  words, 
Andrew. — What  is't  ye'd  hae?"  *   ^ 

"  I'd  hae  ye  come  wi'  me  as  my  wife  to  yon  country," 
he  said,  with  a  fine  firmness,  reaching  out  a  hand  to 
her.  '  '    '-        '  ''-  '■■  '  "^-"■ 

A  wonderful  joy  shot  up  in  her  face,  and  then  her 
eyes  went  suddenly  to  tears.  She  stood  for  a  moment^ 
not  speaking  at  all.  The  tears  did  not  fall,  but  slowly 
dried  away,  and  she  saw  him  again  through  a  lens  of 
mist.  Once  or  twice  she  lifted  her  hands,  but  they 
dropped  to  her  side,  and  she  shook  her  head  at  him 
in  a  dazed  fashion,  till  he  drew  back  his  hand,  and 
waited  for  her  to  speak.  It  seemed  as  if  she  never 
would  be  able.  So  much  had  crowded  into  this  moment. 
She  was  like  a  child  just  born,  bewildered  by  light  and 
air,  and  suffocated  by  its  very  joy  of  living  and  free- 
dom :  this  seemed  her  certificate  of  life  and  pardon. 
Still  she  did  not  speak,  and  he  said  at  last :  "  It's  gey 
sudden  o'  me,  Elsie,  to  speak  so  to  ye,  an'  maybe  ye 
hae  a  richt  to  be  no  pleased,  but  ye  hae  kent  me  syne  I 
was  a  laddie,  an'  I  hae  kent  ye  syne  I  drappit  the  berries 
i'  you're  patten  by  the  auld  peel-tower ;  an'  there's  nae- 
thing  to  hide  and  naething  to  tell.  I  hae  lo'ed  an'  I 
hae  lost,  an'  I'll  no  say  that  the  world's  gey  fair  the  day. 
But  I'll  be  a  true  man  to  you,  Elsie,  an'  gin  ye  no  fash 


THE  BEND   ff  THE   CRAG." 


187 


yourself  aboot  things  done  and  canna  be  undone,  there'll 
be  guid  days  for  baith  and  a' !  "  Before  she  spoke  Ven- 
law  knew  what  her  reply  would  be.  He  had  acted  sud- 
denly, yet  he  felt  he  had  not  acted  on  mere  impulse.  He 
was  used  to  think  hard,  and  when  his  conviction  was 
reached  he  abided  by  it,  believing  in  it. 

She  came  forward  to  him  now,  standing  very  near 
him,  the  idiot  almost  at  their  feet.  "  Andrew,"  she  said 
solemnly,  "  gang  awa  tae  yon  kentrie,  and  forget  what  ye 
hae  said  tae  me. — O,  man,  man,  d'ye  think  that  I'd  hae 
ye  at  the  price  ?  D'ye  think  that  a  woman's  lo'e's  sae 
puir  a  thing  it  wad  hae  sic  sacrifice  ?  I  winna  hide  ae 
thing  frae  ye,  Andrew  Venlaw,.  ye  hae  ben  sae  gran'  a 
man. — I  lo'e  ye," — here  she  shut  her  eyes,  and  her 
face  crimsoned — "  I  hae  lo'ed  ye,  and  shall  lo'e  ye  ever- 
mair  :  but  I  winna  hae  ye,  I  canna  hae  ye.  Abune  a', 
d'ye  think  I  wad  saddle  ye  wi'  the  puir  laddie  there, 
travelling  ayont  the  sea,  in  strange  lands,  a  burthen  tae 
ye  ? — Nae,  nae,  it  canna  be  !  " 

What  all  this  cost  her  to  say  only  a  woman  can  tell,  a 
man  can  only  guess.  She  had  set  her  love  on  one  cast 
long  ago,  and  long  ago  she  had  lost.  Jealousy,  hatred, 
revenge,  wrong,  possessed  her.  Then  came  their  conse- 
quences, in  which  she  was  discomfited  :  bitterness,  then 
remorse  and  repentance  :  and  then  penance — the  pen- 
ance of  living  down  a  confessed  shame  in  hard  sur- 
roundings, with  a  nature  not  the  most  conciliatory ; 
having  a  kind  of  stern  satisfaction  in  self-punishment. 
She  had  settled  in  her  mind  that  she  should  live  in 
Braithen  always.  When  she  left  Cowrie  Castle  on  the 
day  that  Venlaw,  and  Brian,  and  Benoni  came  back,  it 
seemed  to  her  that  she  had  closed  the  door  on  her  past, 


1       I 


%  % 


1 88 


THE   CHIEF  FACTOR, 


and  that  she  must  begin  life  over  again,  resolute  to  for- 
get all  she  ought  to  forget,  and  to  remember  that 
year  by  year  she  and  the  poor  creature  whom  God  sent 
into  the  world  with  chaos  threatening  every  step,  must 
live  as  best  they  might,  digging  in  hard  pastures  for  what 
joy  could  be  found.  Elsie  had  not  that  meek  nature 
which  could  settle  into  a  kind  of  nerveless  endurance  : 
passion,  quick  resentment,  an  almost  gypsy-like  impul- 
siveness were  her  birthright.  Often  she  had  set  her 
teeth  with  an  animal-like  fierceness,  when  she  thought 
that  she  must  face  day  by  day  the  cold  greeting  of 
Braithen — never  very  hearty  to  the  righteous,  "  maist  caii- 
cumspect  wi'  sinners."  She  had  in  her  veins  a  mountain- 
spirit, — her  ancestors  had  come  from  the  Highlands, — 
and  the  heavy,  narrow  temper  of  the  people  among 
whom  she  lived  tried  her.  At  times  she  longed  to  be  in 
some  wild  country  where  she  could  feel  free,  and  forget 
the  wrong  she  had  done,  or  live  it  down  in  a  life  of  activ- 
ity. When,  therefore,  Venlaw  asked  her  to  be  his  wife, 
a  wild  sort  of  joy  possessed  her,  and  the  thought  of  fre*^- 
dom  from  her  present  life  was  like  Judas's  prospect  of 
the  iceberg  from  a  painful  territory.  This,  linked  to  liv- 
ing with  the  man  she  loved,  so  shocked  her  with  a 
sudden  delight  that  she  almost  had  thrown  herself  into 
his  arms.  But,  with  her  strong  sense,  she  saw  at  once  the 
other  side  of  the  medal,  and  answered  Venlaw  as  she 
did. 

"  There  is  no  sacrifice,  Elsie,"  he  said  :  "  I  ken  weel 
that  such  wrang  as  ye  did  once  ye  did  oot  o'  love. 
We  all  hae  suffered,  let  us  all  be  happy  as  we  can.  Off 
there  in  that  grand  land,  workin'  thegither,  do  ye  no 
think  that"  twa  wha's  toddled  i'  the  same  heather  '11 


"  THE  BEND   0'   THE   CRAG." 


189 


hae  in  their  hands  the  makin'  o'  joy  for  theirsels  ? 
and " 

"  Nae,  nae — there  is  the  laddie  !  "  she  said,  desperately, 
for  she  was  ill-fitted  to  resist  him. 

"  I  will  not  say  that  he'd  no  be  a  care,  but  such  a  care 
1  would  take  and  be  glad  o't,  poor  laddie  !— think,  Elsie 
Garvan :  think  that  when  ^  gang  frae  Scotland,  come  the 
morrow,  I  shall  come  back  nae  mair:  an'  what  micht  hae 
been  will  no  be  ever."  ^         ' 

She  was  silent.  The  idiot  stirred,  and,  in  a  half- 
waking  state,  raised  his  head  and  mumbled. 

"Andrew,"  she  said,  firmly,  "  while  the  laddie  lives  it 
canna  be.  I  ken  how  weel  ye  mean,  an'  gin  ye  come 
back  nae  mair,  sair  will  ye're  frien's  hearts  be  ;  but 
that's  as  the  A'michty  wuUs,  an'  I've  naething  mair  t' 
say ;  naething  at  a',  except — "  Here  she  paused,  and 
seemed  to  struggle  with  herself.  "  O,  Andrew  Ven- 
law,  ye  hae  broken  ma  sperrit  wi'  your  kindness,  an' 
I'll  no  find  it  sae  hard  tae  leeve  on  t'  end  o'  it.  An', 
Andrew,  will  ye  no  gang  the  noo  and  leave  me  till 
mysel'?" 

All  at  once  she  turned  away  from  him,  and,  with  a 
chafing  motion  of  her  hands,  leaned  her  head  against  the 
chimney-piece.  He  came  over  to  her  and  put  his  hand 
on  her  shoulder  gently.  "  I  did  what  I  thocht  best, 
Elsie ;  and  I  wad  it  had  ben  what  ye  thocht  best.  But 
listen  to  me,  lass.  I'll  no  be  comin'  back  to  Braithen  ; 
but,  if  any  time  it  should  be  that  ye  can  and  will  come 
to  me,  send  me  word,  and  you  shall  be  brocht.  .  .  . 
And  forgie  me,  lass,  if  I  hae  offered  ye  what  anither 
couldna  take." 

She  looked  at  him  now  steadily  ;  her  face  had  a  strong 


190 


THE   CHIEF  FACTOR. 


f 


kind  of  light  in  it,  and  from  her  eyes  had  gone  all  the 
recklessness  of  other  years.  "  Andrew,"  she  said,  "  ye're 
the  first  e'er  askit  ma  forgeeveness,  and  the  last  that  should 
ask  it.  But  isna  it  gran'  to  hae  the  heart  tae  do't !  "  She 
spoke  more  slowly.  "  If  ever  I  can  gae  tae  ye,  Andrew 
Venlaw,  an'  ye  wull  hae  me,  I  wuU  gae — an'  noo  gang  an' 
leave  me  till  mysel'." 

Without  a  word  he  took  a  pencil  from  his  •  pocket,  and 
on  the  stanchion  of  a  loom  near  him  wrote  the  name  of 
his  fort,  and  the  Company's  address,  in  the  old  land  and 
the  new  ;  then  he  stooped  down  and  said  to  the  idiot, 
as  he  ran  his  fingers  through  the  matted  hair :  "  Fare- 
weel,  laddie — fareweel ! "  Rising,  he  caught  Elsie's 
hands  in  his,  shook  them  without  a  word,  and  left  the 
house. 

Elsie  stood  for  a  time  watching,  as  in  a  dream,  the 
door  through  which  he  had  passed,  but  at  last  dropped 
on  her  knees  beside  the  sleeping  boy,  and  looking  at  him 
strangely,  with  her  hands  clasped  between  her  knees,  said, 
in  a  weary  voice  :  **  We're  waifs  i'  the  hills,  Pete  ;  waifs 
wi'  haird  traivel  afore  us." 

With  the  touch  of  a  mother  she  ran  her  fingers  through 
his  hair  as  Venlaw  had  done.  The  lad  stirred,  his  eyes 
opened  and  looked  at  her,  his  sagging  lips  moved,  but 
he  said  nothing. 

The  evening  deepened  round  them  ;  night  settled 
heavily.  Still  the  boy  slept,  and  Elsie  sat  by  him,  silent, 
staring  at  the  fire.  Now  and  again  stray  echoes  of  rev- 
elling floated  up  the  brae,  and  once  or  twice  a  cotter 
stumbled  by  her  door,  crooning  in  dishevelled  fashion  an 
old  song.  At  last  one,  more  boisterous  than  the  rest, 
ambled  on,  singing  very  loudly  :       -   .      ■■- 


THE  BEND  0'   771 E   CRAG," 


191 


"  Pass  the  bottle  roon,  aye  pass  the  bottle  roon, 
For  airly  i'  the  marnin'  we'll  be  marchin'  frae  the  toon  ; 
We'll  be  marchin'  frae  the  toon,  and  we'll  gang  the  Honler  track, — 
Ciin  ye  wuU,  come  traivel  wi'  us — but  we'll  no  be  comin'  back  ! — 
So  pass  the  bottle  roon  !  aye  pass  the  bottle  roon  ! " 

The  noise  waked  the  idiot,  who  looked  up  at  Elsie,  and 
then  peered  round.  "  Ay,  ay,"  he  mumbled,  '*  gang  fetch 
the  coo  frae  the  Black  Bog — Gang  by  the  mill  " — here 
he  chuckled — "An'  the  wheel  gaes  roon  !  " 

So  muttering  he  went  to  his  bed.  His  mood  was  so 
weird  and  strange  that  Elsie,  tried  by  the  nervous 
excitement  of  the  day,  lay  long  awake,  troubled  and 
brooding.  At  last  she  fell  asleep.  She  slept  so  soundly 
that  she  did  not  hear  her  brother  get  up  soon  after 
sunrise,  and  steal  out  of  the  house. 

He  shambled  down  the  brae  towards  the  town.  He 
stopped  once  or  twice  on  the  bridge,  and,  thrusting  his 
head  over  the  barrier,  mouthed  words  at  the  stream, 
but  at  last  made  his  way  to  the  mill,  and  down  by  the 
flume  to  the  big  half-exposed  mill-wheel.  The  place  had 
always  a  fascination  for  his  vagabond  mind,  and  several 
times  before  he  had  stolen  away  from  home,  and  was 
found  there.  .  > 

The  wheel  was  not  going  yet.  He  stood  on  an  old 
wall  beside  it  half  stone,  half  earth,  and  conjured  it  in 
his  foolish  fashion.  From  where  he  was  he  could  see 
the  bridge  and  the  road  leading  to  it.  At  last  he  looked 
up  and  saw  a  horseman  crossing  the  bridge.  He  chuckled 
in  an  animal-like  way  to  himself,  raised  an  awkward  arm, 
and  beckoned.  Then  he  called  in  no  distinct  tone,  and, 
as  if  dissatisfied  at  getting  no  answer,  began  to  hurry 
from  the  wall.     At  that  moment  the  great  wheel  began 


i 


t'"i 


192 


THE   CHIEF  FACTOR, 


to  turn.  It  startled  him.  He  swung  round  heavily,  a 
stone  moved  beneath  his  feet,  he  swayed,  lurched  for- 
ward, and  fell  into  the  mill-race  under  the  battering 
wheel. 

The  idiot  boy  had  fulfilled  his  own  vague  prophecy. 

But  the  horseman,  unconscious  of  the  tragedy,  rode  on 
towards  the  Border,  and  by  the  time  Braithen  knew  that 
another  low  house  was  to  be  builded  in  its  kirkyard,  he 
had  left  the  Shiel  Valley,  to  return  no  more. 


t 


J 


'} 


-  y : 


1     "Ci" .  ; 


'-,„  ■*> 


CHAPTER  XV. 


THE    RETURN. 


M 


It  was  so  still  the  Fort  seemed  sleeping.  The  intemper- 
ate sunshine  fell  upon  it  ardently ;  its  walls,  its  roofs,  the 
very  mortar  creasing  its  stones,  were  soaked  in  heat  and 
silence.  A  slumbrous  dog  caught  at  an  intrusive  gnat,  the 
great  blue- bottles  of  a  short-lived  summer  boomed  on  the 
panes,  the  chain  of  a  bear  rattled  lazily  as  Bruin  turned  to 
a  new  position  of  idleness  in  his  yard.  Human  life  seemed 
aUent.  The  nindows  and  the  doors  of  the  Fort  were 
ojjen  ;  no  sound  came  from  them  save  from  one  room,  and 
then  it  was  only  the  ticking  of  a  clock. 

Yet,  if  one  had  looked  into  the  cool  dusk  of  that  window 
there  would  have  been  seen  a  strange  thing.  A  girl  half-sat, 
half-knelt,  upon  the  floor,  her  eyes  upon  the  clock.  She 
was  motionless,  she  was  silent,  sa\  e  that  had  you  also  knelt 
beside  her  you  would  have  heard  her  heart  beating  up 
against  her  bosom  like  a  muffled  pendulum.  She  was 
watching,  waiting  ;  and  though  lips  have  sometimes  a  trick 
of  silence,  hearts  have  the  impertinent  habit  of  crying  out. 
This  girl's  heart  was  calling,  so  loudly  indeed,  that  a 
traveller  approaching  the  Fort  from  a  distant  point  in  the 
horizon  must  easily  have  heard  it,  if  the  voice  of  a  heart  is 
like  that  of  the  lips.  Perhaps  he  did  hear  it,  but  not  in 
the  fashion  which  would  go  for  evidence  in  a  court  of  law. 
We  cannot  swear  to  soundless  voices ;  yet  sometimes  they 


m 


41 


"^'«fTf? 


194 


THE   CHIEF  FACTOR. 


speak  so  plainly  that  one  in  telling  what  they  said  might 
declare  to  speaking  the  truth,  Heaven  helping  him. 

The  traveller  paused  when  his  eyes  fell  upon  Waiting 

Mountain.     It  was  his  first  welcome  home. This  was 

his  home  now,  and  must  be,  to  that  hour  when  the  father 

,  of  his  biographer  should  bid  him  a  staunch  God-speed  upon 
the  great  journey  man  takes  when  he  goeth  to  his  long 
home.  The  mountain  slept;  but  he  could  see  its  breath 
rising  in  hot  palpitations,  and  come  floating  towards  him,  a 
fragrant  wafture  on  his  cheek.  As  the  smell  of  some  per- 
fumed letter,  or  the  balm  of  some  forgotten  relic,  floats  up  to 
a  man's  nostrils  while  he  fumbles  among  old  tokens,  and  his 
past  heaves  on  him  like  a  ghost,  so  Andrew  Venlaw  stands 
still  in  that  flowered  plain,  and  faces  suddenly  the  wilder- 

>  ness  of  his  past ;  which,  by  the  spirit  of  an  unconquerable 
manhood,  he  had  made  into  a  garden  :  for  he  had  learned 
and  performed  according  to  the  great  charm,  the  noble 
spirit  of  peace,  which  is  self-sacrifice.  He  had  come  back 
to  return  no  more ;  but  here  lay  a  vast  field  of  endeavour, 
and  on  yonder  fort  there  flew  the  flag  of  the  bold  adventurers 
of  the  North,  the  splendid  freebooters  of  the  wilds.  His 
heart  swelled  big.  He  was  a  chief  of  hardy  comrades,  a 
leader  of  men. 

He  had  left  his  companions  behind,  and  had  hurried  on 
that  he  might  reach  the  Fort  alone,  not  that  he  might 
brood  upon  matters  of  retrospect  or  affection,  but  to  face 
the  hard  duties  of  his  future,  the  possible  solitariness  of  the 
rest  of  his  natural  life,  with  that  iron  heart  credited  to  him 
by  his  people  and  the  heathen. 

He  came  on.  Beyond  the  belt  of  woods  to  his  right 
were  the  Indian  lodges.  His  mind  hung  over  them  for 
a  moment.     He  framed  some  new  conditions  of  policy 


\- 


•■<•  4., 


THE  RETURN. 


195 


then  and  there  ;  but  first  and  last,  and  interwoven  with 
these  thoughts,  was  a  wholesome,  generous  solicitude  re- 
garding Summer-Hair,  her  father,  and  their  people.  His 
thoughts  dwelt  upon  Red  Fire  for  a  moment.  Red  Fire 
should  be  his  friend.  Red  Fire  should  marry  Summer- 
Hair.  No  doubt  he  had  done  so.  Here  Venlaw  paused. 
Well,  so  much  the  better  for  Red  Fire  and  for  Summer-Hair. 

In  the  south,  where  he  had  been  detained  in  consulta-' 
tion,  and  in  visiting  Bruce  Fordie,  he  had  sent  word  by 
couriers  carrying  the  yearly  mails  that  he  would  arrive  at 
Fort  Savicur  about  this  time,  and  again  the  previous  night 
he  had  urged  a  courier  on,  and  whoever  has  followed  his 
fortunes  closeiy  must  know  without  telling  that  the  girl 
within  that  room  at  the  Fort,  watching  the  day  go  round 
the  clock,  was  Summer-Hair. 

When  she  knew  that  Venlaw  was  coming  back,  and, 
further,  knew  the  time,  they  noticed  the  wine  colour  of  her 
face  grow  fainter.  The  spirit  of  suspense  entered  into  her 
eyes,  and  devoured  her  cheek. 

The  afternoon  wore  on.  I'here  was  a  stir  about  the 
fort.  She  heard  excited  voices.  She  sprang  to  the  win- 
dow and  looked  out.  HE  was  coming,  and  her  heart  cried 
out  with  a  great  joy,  for  he  came — alone. 

And  she  turned  and  sped  through  the  yard  of  the  fort 
and  out  across  the  plains,  away  from  it  and  him,  to  the 
lodges  of  her  people. 

But  when  Venlaw  came  to  the  lodge  where  she  was,  to 
tell  her  how  he  sorrowed  for  her  father's  death  (which  had 
occurred  while  he  was  away),  he  was  amazed  to  see  in 
what  dignity  and  reserve  she  carried  herself.  Perhaps,  he 
said  to  himself,  loneliness  and  bereavement  had  accom- 
plished  this. 


\i 


1* 


196 


THE   CHIEF  FACTOR. 


The  weeks  and  months  went  on.  It  was  nearing  win- 
ter. The  Factor  had  not  seen  a  great  deal  of  Summer- 
Hair,  for  though  he  went  to  the  Indian  village  frequently 
to  talk  with  the  new  chief,  the  girl  was  not  often  visible, 
and  now  she  came  seldom  to  the  Fort.  When  she  did 
come  she  was  very  quiet.  She  had  lost  much  of  her  old 
sprightliness,  though  at  times  she  made  up  for  it  by  some 
sudden  biting  speech  to  a  trader  or  voyageur  who  ex- 
ploited crude  wit  upon  her.  Those  who  knew  her  well 
never  ventured  freedom  with  her,  but  occasionally  some 
foolish  half-breed,  fresh  from  victories  among  those  of 
her  race  and  sex  further  south,  attempted  familiarity  in 
speech — to  attempt  it  in  act  would  have  been  a  matter  of 
danger.  So  far  no  one  had  been  so  foolish  as  to  be 
free  with  the  daughter  of  the  great  chief,  Eagle  Cry. 
But  the  world  has  its  fools,  who  go  upon  hateful  ad- 
ventures.    >- 

It  was  known  at  the  Fort  that  Summer-Hair  had  set 
her  all  upon  one  die,  and  though  the  Factor  had  come 
back  alone,  it  was  felt  also  that  she  had  lost.  Perhaps 
she,  too,  felt  it.  But  when  a  woman  (savage  or  any 
other)  has  made  up  her  mind  that  the  game  has  gone 
fatally  and  finally  against  her,  it  is  not  the  time  to  idle 
with  her  in  word  or  act.  One  day  a  half-breed  voya- 
geur brought  news  to  the  Fort  that  the  last  expedition  of 
the  season  from  the  post  on  Hudson's  Bay  was  coming — 
though  he  had  not  seen  them,  having  trailed  by  a  shorter 
route.  But  he  had  heard  at  the  post  of  their  starting. 
This  voyageur  was  not  a  constant  frequenter  of  the  Fort : 
and  at  his  last  visit  there  he  had  been  promptly  knocked 
down  by  the  Factor,  for  some  gross  impudence  and  in- 
subordination.     He   had    harboured   ill-feeling  against 


THE  RETURN. 


197 


Venlaw  for  this,  but  was  too  much  a  coward  to  show  it 
boldly.  When  in  the  Factor's  presence  he  was  sullen 
and  silent ;  when  out  of  it  he  hinted  darkly  at  revenges 
he  would  have  in  good  time.  He  was  known  for  a  blus- 
terer, and  no  one  heeded  him,  nor  thought  it  worth  - 
while  to  report  him  to  the  Factor.  ■ .    ;     ^ 

One  day  Summer-Hair  came  to  the  Fort  to  barter  moc- 
casins for  some  necessaries.  She  sat  for  a  time  with 
the  half-breed  wife  of  the  Factor's  clerk,  and  while  with 
her  the  Factor  sent  to  ask  her  to  his  office.  When 
she  came,  he  said :  "  Summer-Hair,  I  have  received  a 
letter  from  London  which  says  that  the  Great  Company 
is  thankful  for  all  your  father,  the  brave  Eagle  Cry,  did 
for  them  in  our  troubles,  and  in  the  battle  with  the 
White  Hands  :  and  it  sends  to  you  this."  He  took  from 
his  pocket  a  gold  medallion  bearing  the  Company's  crest, 
and  handed  it  to  her,  adding :  **  The  Company  hopes  that 
you  will  wear  it,  and — "  here  he  fingered  the  letter, 
pausing  before  he  handed  it  to  her — **  it  bids  me,  on  the 
day  when  you  go  from  your  own  home  to  another's  not 
to  go  back  again,  to  fill  your  husband's  lodge  with  some- 
thing of  all  that  the  stores  of  the  Fort  hold."  She  took 
the  medal  and  the  letter  quietly,  and  at  first  said  nothing. 
She  looked  at  the  letter,  folded  it  back  and  forth  ab- 
stractedly, and  then  handed  it  again  to  him.  "  Take  it," 
she  said ;  " — I  cannot  read  it — and  give  it  to  me  on  the 
day  when  I  go  from  my  lodge  to  another's,  not  to  go 
back  again."  He  took  it  without  a  word.  Then  she 
hung  the  medallion  on  her  breast,  and  added  :  "  My 
father  was  the  friend  of  the  Company,  Ironheart,  be- 
cause there  was  a  great  man  who  spoke  for  the  Company 
at  Fort  Saviour." 


:r4 


# 


Ifiii? 


198 


r//E   CHIEF  FACTOR. 


Then  she  turned  to  go,  but  in  the  doorway  paused 
and  glanced  back,  as  if  she  would  say  something  more. 
As  she  turned,  the  light  from  the  window  fell  full  upon 
her  face,  and  Venlaw  at  that  moment  caught  there  a 
look  of  suffering  he  had  never  noticed  before.  He  was 
a  strong  wise  man,  but  he  was  not  learned  in  the  ways 
of  women,  nor  watchful  for  those  signs  which  tell  the 
story  of  a  woman's  inner  and  real  life — that  of  the  affec- 
tions. 

In  men  he  recognized,  and  was  keen  to  observe,  all 
those  things  which  go  to  distinguish  character  and  mark 
conduct  and  purpose.  Yet  even  with  these  he  arrived 
at  his  judgment  by  a  stern  kind  of  inquisition  rather 
than  by  those  instincts  which  belong  to  people  of  greater 
sensitiveness  of  nerve,  though,  maybe,  no  greater  sensi- 
tiveness of  mind.  Such  as  Venlaw  set  themselves  in 
solitary  places  through  a  kind  of  partial  blindness  of 
their  natures,  and,  what  is  worse,  make  others  incredibly 
solitary  also.  In  the  game  of  life,  for  every  conquest 
there  is  a  corresponding  defeat,  and  the  happiness  of 
one  half  the  world  is  paid  for  by  the  sorrow  of  the  other 
half.  That  is  the  grim  irony  of  life — if  one  sees  with 
the  grim  ironical  eye. 

Venlaw,  looking  at  the  girl,  came  suddenly  to  his  feet, 
and  took  a  step  towards  her,  an  inquiry  on  his  lips,  com- 
fort on  his  tongue  ;  for  he  thought  she  was  grieving  for 
her  father.  But  with  the  step  he  paused.  For  he  saw 
that  strange  plumbless  flooding  of  the  eye,  which  is  as 
deep  as  the  soul  itself — and  even  an  Indian  woman  has 
a  soul  :  or  had  one  in  an  antique  time. 

When  man  comes  face  to  face  with  that  profound, 
naked,  absolute  look,  he  has  the  recklessness  of  a  vagrant 


THE  RETURN. 


199 


in  God's  world,  or  he  pauses  as  did  Vcniaw  then.  For 
years  he  had  known  her  :  he  had  seen  her  grow  up  in  her 
lather's  lodge  among  her  i)eople,  beloved  and  loving.  He 
had  experienced  and  was  grateful  for  numberless  kind- 
nesses at  her  hands,  many  serviceable  interpositions,  and 
once  or  twice  his  own  life's  safety.  But  never  till  this 
moment,  when,  on  the  threshold  of  his  room,  she  stood 
transfigured  in  that  northern  sunlight,  did  he  understand 
the  spring  and  source  of  all  her  acts  towards  him.  Good 
men  are  sometimes  cruel.  Such  he  had  been  unwittingly, 
but  not  unkindly.  It  is  only  reserved  for  few  of  this 
world  to  stand  where  Venlaw  stood,  and  be  blameless. 
But  Venlaw  was  blameless.  How  far  henceforth  he 
could  be  so  with  this  knowledge  come  to  him — a  sudden 
conviction — the  run  of  events  must  show.  He  drew 
back  to  his  desk  and  his  hand  muffled  itself  in  his  beard. 
At  first  a  great  timidity  possessed  him,  but  presently  he 
gathered  himself  up  and  took  the  situation  manfully. 
He  foresaw  trouble.  There  came  to  him  the  conviction, 
as  deep  as  the  thing  she  had  revealed,  that  the  needle 
of  the  compass  pointed  danger.  His  brain  worked 
massively  and  slowly,  but  when  it  was  awakened  it  saw 
with  astonishing  clearness.  .         ^-.  •.,,,: 

As  he  saw  her  in  that  moment  she  saw  him,  and  she 
knew  that  the  needle  of  the  compass  was  shifting  to 
despair.  For  her  there  was  no  hope.  Why  should  there 
be — a  wild  creature  of  the  woods  and  winds,  a  waif  of 
the  snows  ?  If  she  dashed  her  head  against  the  walls  of 
fate,  who  should  make  account  of  it  ?  She  had  turned 
from  her  own  race  and  people  and  had  poured  the  wine 
of  her  life  out  in  offering  to  an  alien :  and  this  was  the 
end ! 


''\  '"£ 


200 


7-///?   C///^/^  FACTO/!. 


w 


f:: 


Vcnlaw  was  about  to  speak,  but  she  raised  her  hand 
and  said  in  protest  :  "  No,  no.  Do  not  speak.  There 
is  nothing  to  say.     I  understand.     I  am  going." 

Once  again  she  turned  as  if  to  go.  But  suddenly  she 
ran  back  to  him,  caught  his  hand,  and,  before  he  could 
prevent  her,  pressed  it  to  her  lips. 

At  that  moment  a  shadow  fell  upon  them  from  the 
window.  Venlaw  turned  and  saw  a  man  peering  in. 
It  was  the  Half-breed  whom  he  had  punished.  The 
laugh  and  the  low  hateful  words  coming  from  that 
window  made  anger  riot  in  him.  With  a  frightened 
cry  Summer- Hair  turned,  then  passed  swiftly  from 
the  room,  into  the  yard  of  the  Fort,  and  on  into  the 
plains.  -    \     r  -'['7:-:  '''•:^%'-' '     ■ 

But  Venlaw  sprang  forward  suddenly,  caught  the  in- 
truder by  the  throat,  and,  shaking  him  as  he  would  a 
dog,  threw  him  back  with  great  force  into  the  yard, 
so  that  the  man  rolled  over  and  over  on  the  ground 
before  he  recovered  himself.  The  Factor  straightway 
slid  through  the  window,  and  came  up  to  him.  His 
voice  as  he  spoke  was  low,  and  the  words  dropped  with 
a  deadly  precision  : 

"  I  know  your  low,  black  heart,"  he  said  ;  "  and  now, 
mark  !  You  have  evil  in  you — it  shall  have  no  chance 
of  use  here.  Out  of  the  Company's  employ  you  go  from 
this  hour.  If  ever  I  find  you  again  within  the  walls  of 
this  Fort,  I  will  break  you  in  two.  You  know  me. 
Remember.     Now  go  !  " 

In  all  his  life  Venlaw  had  never  been  so  angry,  for 

never  had  so  foul  an  insinuation  been  flung  at  him.     In 

this  experience  hi  had  acted  with  the  hot  valour  and 

/  raw  chivalry  of  a  youth,  but  his  hand  was  the  heavy 


THE  RETURN, 


201 


hand  of  a  man.  If  he  had  known  it  was  possible  that 
this  wretch  could  strike  him  through  another  source, 
he  would  perhaps  have  carried  the  punishment  fur- 
ther. 

The  Half-breed  got  to  his  feet,  and  with  low  curses 
shambled  from  the  yard.  Venlaw  watched  him  as  he 
went,  standing  still  and  choking  down  his  great  anger  ; 
but  presently  he  turned  and  went  back  to  the  Fort. 

When  the  Half-breed  got  outside  the  walls,  he  turned 
and  shook  his  fists  at  it,  and  said,  with  a  curse  ;  '*  Eh  ! 
— Break  me  in  two,  will  you,  Master  Venlaw  ?  I  know 
a  way  to  break  you,  and,  by  God,  I'll  do  it !  " 

With  a  miserable,  gratuitous  cunning  he  had  kept  from 
Venlaw  and  others  at  the  Fort  certain  information  which 
intimately  affected  Venlaw.  He  had  told  them  of  the 
expedition  from  the  port  at  Hudson's  Bay,  but  he  had 
not  told  them  that  with  the  expedition  was  a  woman 
who  had  come  from  a  far  country.  At  Port  Churchill 
some  had  said  she  was  going  to  be  Venlaw's  wife ;  others, 
that  she  was  his  wife.  But  it  was  known  with  certainty 
that  she  had  come  franked  by  the  Hudson's  Bay  Com- 
pany, and  recommended  cordially  to  the  captain  of  the 
•chip  which  brought  her.  When  Venlaw  left  England,  he 
had  given  instructions  to  the  Company  that  if  ever  Elsie 
Garvan  should  seek  a  passage  on  one  of  their  ships  to  go 
to  Hudson's  Bay,  she  was  to  be  provided  for,  and  treated 
as  one  who  was  going  to  be  the  wife  of  Andrew  Venlaw, 
chief  factor.  ,•■„  .  ^       >     .  ,  ,       \ 

The  voyageur,  with  malicious  ingenuity,  now  saw  a 
scheme  whereby  he  could  strike  a  fatal  blow  at  Venlaw. 
At  Port  Churchill,  Red  Fire,  the  Indian  who  had  long 
loved  Summer-Hair  and  had  waited  for  her  patiently  and 


'    M 


;)0> 


77/ A   \./Hhr    Mf'hJA'. 


t''<h«  l\i\«l   hr^'n  tuvi»v  !»»»  tMiUU'  moMlh'i,     l»t«vln(i  ImkIhh 

l\i<«    \\%    WW    t\    \\\\\\\\\\W  \\\\\    \\S   \\\r    'i|)lll(|),       lUnl    U'llM    illllM 

h;\«t  <\o!,  il\tMvh>U'>  sl'i^i\  \\nl(\\v   wlut  I'  Ills  it'luth  hnni 

bo  »h\l   ovw  l\v»MltU'«"  \\t[\\A  Mwtiv      Mr  \vi»nl(l  luivi*  n 
vhrtUvOv  lhoh*to»>\  \\\  \vv\\  \\\y\'>\\  I<Im  «mi»II«m',  nml  niiiinm* 

trttxn  nn\l  Wv^t  tho  twtov.     r»\NVt\hl'<  \v\\  t(li(»»  Ixim-  •«  lint' 

0\o  VA^^^  or  \\w  \mm(  \\\'  \\t\n  on  \\\h  \\t\\  lo  nu-rl  \\\v  vs\u* 
\\\\\\^\\.  \\\'!K  »hv>vh>^t  voHio  lr«l  (lon(»|th  llu'  IniliMit  vil- 
l\^\^  \\  Hoouvt^vl  {^  phM«{\i\l  \\\\\\\i,  \yy  p(0',  In  pUMMln^,  I»Im 
!\,itvtnl  \vs|M^>t»  !\>  S\onnwM  Wau.  Ilrnnnt'  n  roinnld- 
hxM\t  l\>)\o\  lvHi^t\  ;U\>iilin^  fhiMohv  ll\<*  InilinnM  ln«  wnuM 
bt*  5\\\xM\^  n\OvM  in  ^oinn  (l\vo\iHh  [\w  villus',  (unl,  with- 
\nu  \v;on\ng»  liu^w  rtRixlv  tho  rinlnin  of  Ium-  ilooiwiiv. 
Sl\o  \v.\s  \\;\\\  knivling  on  \\w  monn<l,  hor  limnlw  rlnH|H'tl 
\n  (uNnt  of  \\v\\  In  thonv  \V{<m  tho  nuulnlliot*  ^^Ivi'n  Ium 
by  Vonhwv  .n\  houv  luMotv.  Slu*  stiivloil  whon  tin'  (in- 
t-^tu  5h\lV\^  .inx\  j<|Nr{\ng  to   l\ov  loot,  mm  rIu'  muw  who  il 

**  What  vU>  vvHi  wrtnt  ?  "  she  siiiil.  - 

He  l;\ngho\l  \inploas;u\tly.  "  \Vl\;U  lUx'w  lUiy  innt^ 
xxMnt  with  ;»\  Injin  \vv>tn;\n?"  \w  snoonnl.  "  Wh;\(  docH 
Any  m;\n  want  with  a  iK>g,  but  to  dtwg  his  sliul  iiml  li(  k 
his  h;UHis  ?  '* 


///A    fi'tUllftht, 


Ml^ 


(lifilv,  IjMWVh^,  lr((f,  lh«)fM->l  ((««  ^^  w/<«»  Iff  /ftfllrtff  'Nftfhth, 

'iMV»'>l  hh   lit*',  ImiI   H^^  khlf^  / /H<(<l«f   ffr^  <  /if^   fttttti  hU 
Im)mI  (IIhI  MiMh'il  liwny  ^unih  ttt  l(i>j  Ixriff/  fr^lf      Wl>>» 
Mill  M  wMfjl  Im-  ^,m(1«mm-/)  hlffN^lf   n\t,  ffrr^W  !»;*<>    Mf^  rfff 
litlh,  (kmI  hiM  /(f(  I(Im  vv/*y  w/Hf  /fll  l«i*i  fffl^lr^ 

II/ivImk  «4*'f  hl«i  MfM'Mfi^  of  tWmitiU't  tii  ^ftt\tf  hf*  ii/ftnUl 
till  |jy  »(h»l  wmOIj  fh*«  fhf^^'l/  Af  l^/»««^  >j^  f^orf^h*  v/. 
Mill  iIm'  ^','»'I'4  Mfof  lifM^  wt'th  itiU-tritpfht)  ui  ihf-tt  f(f,ttt  hn^ 
Minurx,  Mf»»l  IIh'  'I'-vIIm  l>f<v  )«  nffiij^ji^l^  f/»  h//|/|  fh^»f  </vyfr. 

K^vry  vHI/iim'm  «*•' f-l  lr»«»  If^  |>fl/^  ArrivM  «  f^^/l 
kiomm'mI,  wli'-h  ill"  f  rlfMffrrtl  hff  ffttif-n  h'm  f/wti  ^Y^tH' 
Wniu'i.  '1  l»^f*«  \n  III''  t  titftmntiiffti  ftt  %'tttri^tn  ;»■>»  vv^ll  /"r<i 
(lir  roMMriimioh  of  «mImN  •  /i/*/!  if  flr^  wh^.  mnu  nut)  )\M 
ifi/iM  \u^vth,  for  rofil^filffi^rrl,  ih^  thtitn/U'^hip  hi  ^]v\ffttf 
iiihI    )il«tir'«,  «o   M»f  ^vil  f/i/tn   lo/r^-t   for  f  (fHi^fi^uf/t",  ttt 

(iilislic,  fto  fn^-ff^-rf  tti  tin  f  (ntv,fru(  i'lffti  ?i%  ;ff.  v  l'r'»m^,  l-Aft 
ilif-rf  l«y  jj^'fiifi'l  il  lf»^  itihcrt^ttt   tut  ftpntify  f/f  th^.  ^»H»m 

10  l>f;  jilisoliitf'ly  ftf/iM*'^  rtfrrl  iif,)f  miffujftit  tfi  hh  vtHn'fhy. 

11  h  only  ffif-n  »i»li  Ihf?  f^rnwtt',  f/t  intth  *n<I  i(o&Uk^,  m- 
fi(/rlly  in  Oi'ir  v«ifi<5  who  <  fin  »f;ir»^1  i^fc/rj'*  ttt  th^jf  <>i<h&m^A. 
'\\v  vill/i,if»  hm^Ttuf  ((rtvil  ttUftti*'rtf  of  w(^«krr<^^,  »  ^nd^ki^^ 
ifivoldfifjiry  lwi«;t  in  hi<»  ^^rif po<;^,  ^/r  v>rn^-  rfttkf«<w  «/ii/m, 
wlirn  tli^r  <(tr(U  of  <^!4i^ri  Mrop  from  hi^ fmjf*^/^  :  *r»4  h^.  i^ 
l»l(inK'!'l  into  tlifi  pit  h^r  <li»g  for  oth^r*.  II  it  h  V/  with 
the  i^re'dt  vill«.inje»,  it  h  ttmch  mofH  y^  with  small  ;  a^n/j 
thin  I  J;»lf-hrf;f;^l  h?»/l  lon^  ^/f:ftn  a  traifz/T  it,  oth^.r%,  H  v^ 
ho  who  ]fvArnyt:(]  Hrmn  Kinj^ley'^  rnar^jr*  or»  pv,rt  (Ahr>A 
U,  Venlaw,     ffc  wa-*  now  to  attftmf>t  a  larger  b<itraya{. 


1 


:« 


5  i 


204 


77/ A    (7//A7''  FACTO K. 


He  travelled  on  with  Iho  h|khm1  and  (Mulurnnrc  of  his 
rrtrc,  hour  after  hour,  nml  at  htsl,  near  midnight,  came 
upon  A  ramp-fno.  He  sloU'  sloahhily  to  it,  anil  saw 
beside  it  an  Indian  who  had  played  a  part  in  the  rarlier 
history  of  Venlaw  and  Smnnier-Hair.  It  was  breaking 
'I'ree,  whose  arrow  hati  sped  through  the  <urtain  of 
Kagle  Oy's  lodge  and  wounded  Sunuiier-llair  in  the 
shoulder  ;  who  had  heen  drivet\  out  of  the  village  of  the 
Sun  Roeks  and  was  defeated  in  the  Hig  Sleep  woods 
with  his  tribe,  the  White  Hands.  Tlie  Half-breed  knew 
of  all  these  events,  and  so  full  was  he  of  malice  and  the 
conceit  of  evil  intention,  that  over  cups  of  rum  and  water 
he  disclosed  to  breaking  Tree  his  design. 

"See,  Injin,"  he  said,  "that  Venlaw!  Well,  I  have 
him  so," — opening  and  shutting  his  hands, — "  and  1  will 
clamp  his  heart  so," — grinding  his  heel  in  the  ground. 
"  Hah ! — Vou  know  that  Venlaw  ? — It  was  he  8i)oi!  all  your 
plans  with  the  Sun  Rocks.  It  was  he  kill  your  people  at 
the  Big  Sleep  woods.  He  make  you  a  fool  in  the  eyes 
of  the  world.  Bint  J  Just  now  I  see  him  with  Summer- 
Hair.  Mon  Dku^  they  were  thick  friends  !  Ah,  she 
kiss  his  hand.  Well,  you  know  the  rest!  I  laugh  :  I  say 
some  words.  Eh,  what  do  you  think  ? — He  choke  me  : 
he  roll  me  on  the  ground  :  he  stamp  on  me  :  he  drive 
me  from  the  Fort.  You  think  I  crawl  like  a  dog  of  the 
plains  from  that  Factor  ?  Hah  !  — I  tell  you  :  I  crawl, 
but  I  will  come  back  to  bite." 

He  paused.  Breaking  Tree  drank  his  rum  slowly, 
saying  nothing.  Once  or  twice  he  pushed  the  ashes  of 
the  fire  with  his  foot,  and  sent  a  keen  sidelong  look  at 
the  Half-breed,  but  you  could  not  have  told  from  his 
stoical  countenance  the  thoughts  running  in  him.     In  the 


THE   Kr.TVfiN, 


20$ 


«i|pnce  lie  rcRpondrd  \\\  Inst  wilh  n  ^iithinil  sound,  but 
no  more.      Tnc  voyn^ciir  ( (inliniuvl  : 

"  Well,  I  tell  yon,  I  ktiow  llic  piiirc  to  l»itc.  Come 
find  bite  with  \\\v.  Y<mi  will  see  great  tirne«.  Look  : 
you  know  Red  Mre,  of  the  Sun  Korks.  Well,  it  is  no 
matter  :  you  are  friends  n(»w.  There  is  no  bnttle  between 
the  iSun  Rocks  and  the  White  Ihuids.  You  ef>me!  There 
will  be  fine  things.  Red  I'ire  travels  with  the  ('onifiany's 
people  from  the  Hay."  I  lis  voi(  e  dropped  lower. 
"  'I'here  is  a  woman.  She  is  coming  t(j  Venlaw  from 
behind  the  seas — half-way  over  the  world.  When  I 
tell" — his  voice  dropped  still  lower — "  Ked  Kire  of  the 
thing  1  saw  with  Venlaw  and  Sununer-! lair-  all  that, — 
eh  ?  Can  you  not  see  hell  will  !)e  in  the  skin  of  Red 
Fire  ?  fUrnf  Then  1  will  say  to  Pved  Fire,  ver'  soft  like 
that, — *  There  is  a  way.  You  will  say  to  the  woman,  "  A 
word  comes  from  Venlaw,  the  chief  factor.  He  is  gone 
to  the  North,  twenty — thirty — fifty  miles" — it  is  no  mat- 
ter !  "  And  he  says  Red  I'ire  is  to  bring  her  to  him 
in  the  North — twenty — thirty — fifty  miles.'""  flere 
the  plotter  chuckled  to  himself,  and  rubbed  his  hands 
on  his  knees  in  satisfaction.  "Hah  !  the  woman  goes. 
And  then," — he  gloated,  and  took  a  sip  of  rum, — "  and 
then  he  lose  the  woman  in  the  woods.  Vou  see  ? " — • 
Another  pause.  **  Vcu  see  ?  You  think  that  woman  find 
her  way  ?  No  food — no  house,  eh  ?  She  never  come — 
hah  !  She  have  sleep  in  her  home  behind  the  seas  in 
ver'  fine  warm  bed. — How  will  she  like  the  crust  of  snow 
for  a  blanket  ?  She  have  hear  the  little  tame  dog  bark 
on  the  mat. — How  will  she  like  the  yawp  of  the  red 
wolf  !  She  have  eat  fat  meat  in  warm  country  from  the 
fire. — How  will  she  like  to  chew  the  slipp'ry-elm  bark  ! 


i 


I 


n 


Jo6 


77/ A"   VnthJ'    f  ACrOK, 


mf, 


She  will  m'l  roM  like  Rlour  uml  Hhrwill  «iy  for  foml  — 
A\ul  tlu'n  all  M  oMi «'  hIw  will  m»  tuiui  !  Huh,  jiivMy 
«|uuk  nluMvill  \\w  till  aloiu-.  Ilrth  !  I'Iumv  will  lu»  wihl 
tin\OH  with  Vonlnw  Ihen." 

This  was  thr  «losinn.  Ihit  il  h;»tl  our  lulnl  wcnkncMS  j 
the  voy-mMU-  hihl  nustnkt'n  his  man.  Mrcaking  'V\vk\ 
like  «ll  his  raro,  rouM  follow  out  his  own  Hrhcuu'H  of 
rf*vonjj;r  without  r«Mnp\n\<  tion ;  nlill,  lu<  t«)\ihl  look  with  w 
n\on*  impartial  oyo  at  atiotluM*  tu.in'H  roviMi^cful  inten- 
tions. 1h«t  furtive  ilealing  was  t\ol  \nu  on^^enial  to  hitn 
when  the  general  ganu'  was  one  of  tlupliritv,  atui  lu* 
irathoil  a\\k\  graspevl  the  hanil  of  the  llalf-lireed,  ur  if 
to  give  assent  t*>  the  proposition,  antl  pushed  t»ver  his 
wooden  eup  for  n\ore  r\n\i.  At  this  the  Ilalf-bieed  grew 
more  ev>n)»\uu\ieative,  and  dwell  upon  the  details  of  the 
scheme,  getting  the  borrowed  joy  of  antieipation.  . 

'  Hut,  in  the  gray  of  the  luorning,  Hreaking  Tree  rose 
and  stole  away  towards  I'orl  Saviour,  there  to  tell  the 
gvim  tale  of  evil  to  Venlaw.  The  llalf-hreed  ground  his 
tooth  in  rago  when  he  found  the  hulian  gone,  for  ho 
shixnvdly  guessed  the  intention  ;  hut  he  pushed  on  his 
own  WAV,  knowMug  well  that  ho  had  a  day's  start  at  least, 
and  perhaps  oouM  work  his  sehonie  before  any  possible 
iniort. option.  Hy  otio  K'si  those  strange  ehanees  which 
intorforo  with  plots  ami  counterplots,  he  juisscd  his  way. 
Rage  soen\eil  to  have  blinded  his  f;\cultios  for  the  mo- 
ment, and,  expert  woodsma!\  as  ho  was,  after  crossing  a 
river  at  a  certain  point,  ho  had  got  upon  a  disused  trail 
and  travelled  on  it  for  hours  before  he  discovered  his 
mistake.  Then  ho  tracked  back,  but  it  was  sunset  bo- 
fore  he  got  upon  the  trail  of  the  ox|)edilion,  and  then  he 
was  ready  to  propose  even  more  violent  measures  to  Rod 


r///'  NrrrifN/^, 


207 


I'iir  tliiiM  InHJn^  llir  woiiwm  :  Imm  niisr,  if  Mrrnkin^  Trer 
Ii.'hI  dim  IohciI  Ihm  |tlnii  iit  I'ort  Siivioiir,  tlir  woiFiMti'ii 
( liiuu CM  (»f  iM'iii^  fnimd,  il  hIic  wcrr  I'mt,  w»;til(l  lie 
^rciilcr — ('X|nMlili(iim  wrmhl  he  sfnil  rxil  in  Mrjircli  nf  her, 
Siiinrlliiii^  nuifr  mMhIrn  wim  now  his  rue.  VVifli  Jhe  <  iin- 
iiing  of  liiH  ni(  ('  \\v.  (  arnc  into  llir  <  nrnp,  nin^in^  ii  non^  of 
llic  vovM^cnr^.  fnniili.'ir  to  tnnny  woodmricn  fUMl  wclrorncd 
l»V  nil.  lie  jMinounn'd  liinmt'lf /i  inossen^fr  trotn  Vttri 
Siivionr,  and  Hnid  that  \m  liiisincss  waw  with  \<vi\  I'ire. 
'To  IIr'  Indian  he  wa^  taken.        1 

hnl  I'lHfMvhcrr  llic  hiinlrrs  were  ont.  The  trail  was 
narr(»win^  to  the  end.  Isventn  had  trav(;lled  the  fnll 
path  of  tliM  (onipasH.  'I'lie  needh^  pointerl  for  the 
iiiHlant,     aH   in    that    desolate,    in( ornimnionahle   North, 

(l(»wnwardH,  HJiiverin^,  while  the  alaj^e  darkened  for 
the  tragedy  :  that  wheti  the  lights  rise  u|)  aj^ain  some  of 
(he  player.s  he  ^onc,  and  the  fin|/er  point  full  hornf;. 

While  llreaking  Tree  travelled  to  I'Virt  Saviour,  the 
vanity  of  virtue  rose  in  him,  and,  as  mai  y  another  ha» 
done,  he  thought  himself  a  very  fme  fellow,  bcraiise,  for 
tlie  moment,  he  was  less  a  villain  than  some  other  man. 
Ihit  this  was  no  had  thing  where  lives  worth  the  saving 
were  in  jeopardy.  And  with  this  vanity  there  came 
what  he  had  never  felt  before, — a  feeling  for  justice 
and  ( ompensation  to  Summer- Mair  :  his  arrow  had 
wounded  her!  lie  did  not  believe  the  tale  the  Half- 
breed  had  told  him,  for  Venlaw  had  been,  where  Indian 
women  were  concerned,  a  figure  apart  from  most  of  his 
race  and  color.  To  the  heavy  mind  of  the  Indian  it 
seemed  fair  to  go  to  Summer-Hair  before  he  went  to 
Venlaw.  I'herefore,  as  soon  as  he  reached  the  Indian 
village,  he  found  Summer-Hair's  lodge  and  told  her  his 


\ 


vm 


I  -  * 


2o8 


THE   CHIEF  FACTOR, 


'•  '.* 


tale.  He  did  not  know  who  was  the  woman  on  her  way 
to  Venlaw.  What  Summer-Hair  guessed,  what  her  in- 
stincts told  her,  we  need  not  now  try  to  disclose.  Per- 
haps, in  her  blind,  heathen  way  she  saw  the  end  of  it  all, 
and  met  it  as  women  can  with  a  regnant  readiness. 
She  sent  Breaking  Tree  on  to  Fort  Saviour  with  a  mes- 
sage to  Venlaw,  to  say  that  she  had  started  on  the  trail 
to  the  expedition.  Then  she  hurriedly  made  her  prep- 
arations and  set  forth.  She  had  charged  Breaking  Tree, 
however,  not  to  tell  Venlaw  of  the  woman's  peril,  but 
simply  to  say  that  the  expedition  was  in  danger  from  the 
Half-breed.  She  knew  that  Venlaw's  haste  would  be 
none  the  less  in  either  case,  and  if  the  worst  should 
happen,  it  were  better  for  the  knowledge  to  come 
tardily.  For  even  an  Indian  woman,  one  of  a  race  of 
heathen,  may  have  that  finer  instinct  which  the  lord  of 
the  world,  the  Caucasian,  made  so  finely  in  the  quarries 
of  the  gods,  imagines  all  his  own.  But  a  woman  is  a 
woman,  heathen  or  another,  and  so  long  as  her  race 
bring  men  into  this  world,  so  long  will  that  protective 
instinct  for  man  rise,  in  times  of  peril,^  superior  to  low  or 
gross  considerations.  Behind  it— even  in  this  selfish  age 
— is  self-immolation. 

Venlaw  and  his  small  handful  of  men  got  soon  upon 
their  way.  But,  travel  hard  as  they  did,  Summer-Hair 
maintained  her  lead,  and  reached  the  camp  soon  after 
the  Half-breed  had  been  taken  where  Red  Fire  stoically 
smoked.  She  came  into  the  light  of  the  camp-fire  just 
as  a  strange  scene  occurred.  And  she  was  the  first  to 
see  it.  Under  the  boughs  of  a  great  pine  two  men  were 
closed  in  deadly  quarrel.  Red  Fire  had  resented  the 
imputation  upon  Summer-Hair,  and  repelled  the  crime 


THE  RETURN, 


2C9 


suggested  to  him  by  suddenly  seizing  the  Half-breed's 
throat.  The  two  struggled  and  swayed,  and  presently, 
as  Sammer-Hair  cried  out,  lunged  full  into  the  light  of 
the  camp-fire.  The  Half-breed  was  battling  for  his 
life,  and  even  the  coward,  when  in  that  last  trench,  can 
fight  like  a  tiger,  if  not  like  a  man.  So  startled  were  the 
people  in  camp  that  they  made,  at  first,  no  attempt  to 
part  them,  for  they  did  not  understand  the  motive  or 
cause  of  the  struggle. 

Red  Fire  was  not  armed.  But  hidden  in  the  Half- 
breed's  sash  was  a  knife.  With  incredible  strength  for 
so  small  a  man  he  wrenched  back  Red  Fire's  hands  from 
his  throat  for  an  instant,  and  ran  his  hand  down  for  the 
weapon.  But,  at  that  moment,  another  actor  came  upon 
the  scene.  Venlaw  sprang  from  the  shade  of  the  pines 
into  the  circle,  followed  by  his  men,  and  ran  towards  the 
two,  commanding  them  to  desist.  So  sudden,  so  com- 
pelling was  his  call,  that  Red  Fire  half-lost  his  hold,  then 
suddenly,  with  a  huge  impulse,  threw  the  Half-breed 
from  him.  The  wretch  fell  into  the  burning  embers. 
He  scrambled  out,  terror,  despair,  rage,  in  his  eyes.  But 
now,  foiled  as  he  was,  his  hatred  was  centred  upon 
the  Factor.  He  crouched,  smothering  the  fire  in  his 
clothes,  and  scowling  up  terribly  at  Venlaw  the  while. 
With  admirable  coolness  Venlaw  turned  to  Red  Fire  and 
asked  the  meaning  of  the  quarrel.  As  he  did  so  he  heard 
a  woman's  voice  behind  him  in  the  pines.  It  startled  him 
and  he  turned  towards  it.  At  that  the  Half-breed,  seeing 
his  opportunity,  suddenly  caught  the  knife  from  his 
belt  and  sprang  at  him.  Venlaw  must  have  seen  the 
act  too  late — but  some  one  saw  it  for  him.  Summer- 
Hair  sprang  betweerf  the  demon  and  the  man,  and  then 


210 


THE  CHIEF  FACTOR. 


m. 


„!l' 


came  huddling  to  the  feet  of  Venlaw,  a  gap  in  her  brown 
breast. 

An  instant  later  the  Half-breed  was  tossed  aside,  dead. 

Near  the  camp-fire  a  daughter  of  the  North  was  trav- 
elling hard  along  the  gray  savannahs  between  Life  and 
After.  She  understood  the  whole  play  now.  Red  Fire 
hung  over  her,  a  haggard,  tearless  sorrow  in  his  face. 
She  knew  why  he  had  fought  the  Half-breed.  She 
looked  at  him  pitifully,  and  half-raised  her  hand  to  him, 
saying  :  "  Brave — brave  ! — Perhaps — in  the  Land  of  the 
Great  Father " 

Venlaw  stood  apart  a  little,  looking  down  at  her  as 
only  a  man  can  look  who  has  known  such  things.  When 
her  eyes  turned  towards  him  he  came  and  stooped  beside 
her. 

"  Where  is  she  ? "  the  girl  said.  Venlaw  was  puzzled. 
He  thought  her  mind  was  wandering.  "  The  woman  we 
came  to  see" — she  added.  Then  she  leaned  upon  her 
e'bow,  and  peered  through  the  mist  in  her  eyes  beyond 
Venlaw.  "  See,  she  is  here  !  "  she  said.  "  She — is  here 
— Ironheart !  "     Then  she  fell  back.        '       i     ^ 

A  hand  touched  Venlaw's  arm,  and  a  voice  with  a 
choking  sob,  said  :  "  Andrew,  I  hae  come,"        ^     - 

"  Elsie  !  "  he  responded  in  a  thick  voice,  and  clasped 
her  hands.  Then  he  turned  quickly  again,  as  though 
struck  by  a  sudden  pain,  towards  Summer-Hair. 

But  Red  Fire  had  closed  her  eyes. 

FINIS.  "'     ■ 


'I-    /    1 


f   -. 


•  )» 


A    RICOCHET. 


:  '•  "^    . 


I. 


A  Memory. 


LiSGAR  King  was  puzzled.  He,  with  his  sister  Molly, 
had  been  dining  at  Government  House  in  Winnipeg. 
Occurrences  of  the  sort  have  been  sufficient  to  puzzle 
men,  ere  this.  But  Lisgar  King's  quandary  had  nothing 
to  do  with  "  fizz  "  and  chartreuse. 

"  Where  have  I  seen  her  before,  Molly  ?  " 

"  Seen  whom  before,  Gar  ? — The  blonde  woman  with 
eyes  and  a  nimbus  ? "     / 

•.   "Well,  if  you  put  it  that  way,  yes.      Striking,  isn't 
she?"     ..,■::■      '  /■;  ^.' , ■;..,.  ::,.  ^  ■.-.. 

"  In  many  ways."  V   ,  * 

"  Now,  Molly,  what  do  you  mean  by  *  many  ways  '  ? — 
That's  the  woman  of  it,  I  suppose." 

"  Don't  be  mean.  Gar.  I'm  not  given  to  finding  fault 
with  other  women." 

"  No  S  no  !  " — with  an  upward  inflection. 
No  !  no  ! '  without  any  dubiousness,  Gar." 
We  reason  from  different  c/aia,  Molly." 

**So  it  seems.  Who  is  she?"  Molly  looked  more 
interested  than  she  wished.' 

"  She  is  Mrs.  Haldimand  Earle." 


(( < 


i(( 


II"         ;i 


"?'*■  . 


212 


A   A/C0t7/A7\ 


"Yes,  but  who  is  Afr.  nnidimand  Karle?" 

"  He  is  the  tiew  agent  for  the  Marniadukc  Farm,  and 
a  good  fellow  too,  I  fanry.  Hut  how  she  worries  me  ! 
Tvc  seen  her  somewhere -somewhere.  ...  I  give 
it  up  for  the  present.  Uy  the  way,  Molly,  I  wish  you'd 
ask  Adolph  Latrohc  to  dinner." 

"  Adolph  Latmhe  !  Vo\i  mean  the  other  man  who 
was  struck  with,  or  by,  the  lady's  charms." 

**  He  did  seem  interested  in  the  Karle,  didn't  he  ?  " 

"Aren't  you  a  trifle  rude,  (lar  ?  Suppose  some  one 
should  speak  of  your  sister  as  'the  King.'" 

"  rd  say  she  shouUl  be  called  '  the  Princess.' " 

•'  Don't  be  silly."     Molly  was  chafing. 

"  Natural  infirmity.     Are  you  going  to  ask  Latrobc  ? " 

"  Ves.     When  shall  it  be?" 

"Saturday  is  my  best  day,  you  know." 

"Let  it  be  Saturday,  then.  Haven't  you  anything 
else  to  propose  ? "  Molly  asked  slyly. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? "  he  replied,  looking  away. 

"  I  mean,  you  hypocrite — you  man — that  yoi'  want  me 
to  ask  Mrs.  Ivulc  also,  only  you  think  I  don't  like  her, 
and  you  hesitate." 

"  Well,  rather  than  depreciate  your  powers  of  divina- 
tion, let  it  be  that  way  ;  so  ask  the  Earles  and  Latrobe  : 
which  will  make  five,  with  ourselves.  Can't  you  add 
anofher  five,  and  have  a  full  and  fashionable  table  ? " 

"But  I  shall  have  to  call  on  Mrs.  Earle  first.  Then 
she'll  have  to  return  the  salaam,  so  we  had  better  put  off 
the  dinner  for  a  couple  of  weeks  or  more." 

"Oh,  very  well,  then." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  then  Molly  said  : 
What  is  Mr.  Latrobe 's  occupation.  Gar  ? " 


ii 


W    MIKMORY, 


213 


"  Kx-army  mrtn — at  present,  land  speculator  —Inrky, 
too;  one  of  the  Qtiel)e»:  Latrobes  ;  left  the  servic':'  after 
ten  years  of  it.  Didn't  like  being  ordered  to  India,  and 
Africa,  and  all  over  the  place." 

"  He  looks  foreign,  doesn't  he  ?" 

"  He  is  foreign  ;  that  is,  he  is  French — (Janadian 
French ;  comes  of  one  of  the  families  of  the  ancien  ri- 
gime.     Bears  himself  chevalier-like,  doesn't  he  ?" 

"And  talks  chevalier-like  too,"  she  hastily  and  mean- 
ingly added. 

"  Does  he  ?  Now,  confound  it  all,  Molly,  you've  been 
guying  me.     Why,  he  took  you  in  to  dinner !  " 

"  Oh,  you  just  remember  that,  do  you  ?  Yoti  were  so 
sweetly  occui)ied  with  Mrs.  Karle  and  the  entries  that 
you  hadn't  thought  or  sight  for  any  on  cise. " — This, 
with  tentative  malice. 

"  That  division  of  interest  is  a  bit  rough  on  Mrs,  Earle, 
isn't  it  ?  But  let  us  hear  about  Latrobe's  conversation — 
his  chevalier-like  conversation," 

"You  won't  laugh?"  Molly  rejoined,  a  little  ear- 
nestly. 

"Not  a  simper." 

"  For  want  of  a  better  subject  we  were  speaking  about 
names.  He  said  he  had  a  preference  for  names  begin- 
ning with  M-a-r.  You  know  them — Marion,  Marguerite, 
Marie." 

"  He  evidently  knew  that  Molly  was  a  pet  name  for 
Marie,"  was  the  playful  response. 

Molly  took  no  notice,  but  continued  :  "  Then  he  made 
a  quotation." 

"  Oh  !  "     There  was  a  provoking  irony  in  Lisgar's 


214 


A   RICOCHET. 


^i 


fir  ! 


i 


I? 


"  *  Oh  ? '  It  was  very  pretty.  I  asked  him  to  write  it 
down  for  me.  Here  it  is  ;  shall  I  read  it  to  you  ?  It  is 
French." 

"  Get  a  lexicon  first." 

"Nonsense!     Listen: 

"  Chacun  donne  k  celle  qu'il  aime 
"  "  "^      •    '  Les  plus  beaux  noms  et  plus  doux  ;  • 

■  Pour  moi,  c' est  ton  nom  de  bapteme  '     '      -' ^ 

^  Que  je  pref^re  encore  i  tous.  .'   ^     > 

,    :  :t>  '  Simple  et  teixdre  i  dire,  il  me  serable  •'    , 

-    ^    ,■  .  Pour  te  designer  le  seul  bon,  i"      ■ 

Et  tous  les  douceurs  ensemble 
Je  te  les  murmure  en  ce  nom."  '   , 

"  Yes,  but  I  can't  altogether  follow  it,  Molly ;  some- 
thing about  your  name  being  simple  and  tender  and  a 
happy  vortex  for  the  sweets  of  creation,  isn't  it  ? " 

*  Shame,  Gar  ! — But  let  us  see.  This  piece  of  paper 
was  the  fly-leaf  of  a  letter.  Now  there  was  a  postscript 
written  on  the  back  of  it.  He  did  not  see  it  when  he 
tore  it  off  ;  neither  did  I.  But  since  I  have  seen  it,  I'll 
read  it  to  you." 

She  read,  slowly  accentuating  :  "  Come  and  have  a  cup 
of  tea  with  me  on  Thursday  afternoon  at  five.  I  shall 
be  alone." 

"  Well,  what  of  that  ?  " 

"  Oh,  nothing  very  strange,  only  it  was  signed, 
*  Marie  E.'"  ,  ....,.,.>        ■-  ;::.  -.    ^.^: 

"Marie  E.?"  ^  ,     .v 

"Yes,  Marie  Earle." 

"The  deuce!     Well?" 

"  Mr.   Latrobe    has  evidentlv  known   her  for   some 


A   MEMORY. 


215 


"  By  Jove  !  the  Earles  were  in  Quebec  for  some 
months  last  winter." 

"Quite  so."  Molly  had  made  up  her  mind  about 
something. 

"  And  you  think " 

"  I  0on't  think  anything.     I  am  going  ;  good-night." 

"  .Wait  a  minute,  Molly.  What  is  your  opinion  of  La- 
trobe  ?  You  see  more  in  a  minute  than  the  rest  of  us 
do  in  a  month." 

"  I  think  he  is  playing  with  fire."  She  turned  again 
at  the  door  :  "  I  am  going  to  ask  little  Mrs.  Orde  and 
your  politician  friend  from  Ottawa  to  the  dinner.  What 
is  his  name  again  ?  " 

"  Kerby  Wallack.  He  is  one  of  the  biggest  men  in 
the  Land  Boom."  ""  '   ^  . 

"  And  is,  like  Mr.  Latrobe  and  the  rest  of  you,  under 
the  starry  influence  of  Mrs.  Earle.  I  shall  give  you  all 
a  chance."      v  ;^  *        ^  '* 

"  Molly,  you  are  too  clever  by  half."      < 

"  You  mean  you  are  blind  by  more  than  half." 

"Now,  for  the  last  time,  good-night,  and  don't  forget 
that  we  are  nearly  out  of  wine." 

He  called  after  her :  "  We'll  have  to  come  down  to 
Corby-and -splits,  if  the  Government  keeps  putting  the 
duty  on  Chdteau  Margaux  and  Goulet*' 

Then  Lisgar  King  lit  his  pipe,  stretched  himself  out, 
slowly  absorbed  a  Corby-and-split,  and  began  to  make 
calculations  on  the  corner  of  a  paper  pad.  "  The  boom 
will  last  another  six  months,  at  least,"  he  said  ;  "  but 
Molly  and  I  must  sell  out  at  the  first  symptoms  of 
decay." 

Then  he  found  himself  thinking,  and  sketching  heads 


!  lif  h 


I 


f'-K 


!4i.  4 


2l6 


A   RICOCHET. 


I        I 


i 


\i 

I » 


-u 


aimlessly  on  the  paper.  Suddenly  he  stopped :  "  Mrs. 
Earie,  as  I  live ;  I  seem  to  know  her  every  feature.  Now, 
where  have  I  seen  her  before  ?  Not  lately,  that's  certain. 
She  is  far  back  somewhere  in  my  vapoury  brain.  Where 
was  it  ?  France,  Kentucky, — she  has  the  warm  beauty 
of  the  Kentucky  women — Germany,  or  England  ?•  The 
first  time  I  was  in  England  was  when  I  took  Molly  to 
school." 

He  ran  over  the  families  whose  houses  he  had  fre- 
quented there.     But  shook  his  head. 

"The  second  time."  Still  no  better.  He  laid  his 
pipe  down,  gave  it  up,  and  went  to  bed. 

Mrs.  Haldimand  Earle's  mind  at  this  time  was  en- 
gaged in  the  same  process  of  inquiry.  She  was  sitting  by 
the  library  fire,  which  Mr.  Earle  had  deserted — his  wife 
did  not  care  to  talk.  She  held  the  tips  of  her  fine  fingers 
on  her  eyes  for  a  minute,  as  if  to  cool  them.  They  cer- 
tainly were  brilliant.  Brilliancy  does  not  always  mean 
heat.  In  this  case  it  did.  She  was  making  an  intense 
effort  to  remember  Lisgar  King.  Swiftly,  but  not  in  con- 
secutive order,  scenes  in  her  past  life  went  floating  by 
her  :  things  not  thought  of  for  years.  Insignificant  trifles 
were  startlingly  vivid;  important  events  were  nebulous 
and  in  half-lights  ;  childhood,  girlhood,  womanhood  were 
all  intermingled  in  a  filmy  chaos  of  long- forgotten  inci- 
dents : — The  breaking  of  a  pane  of  glass — a  walk  over  a 
ploughed  field — a  ball  at  Mentone — a  childish  quarrel — 
a  sodden  bit  of  landscape — a  scene  from  an  opera — a 
water-tank  in  a  court-yard — a  bird  with  a  broken  wing — 
a  mocking  laugh — the  kiss  of  a  dying  woman — a  storm 
at  sea — a  rent  in  her  apron  ; — all  these  things,  great  and 
little,  crowded  on  each  other  with  lightning-like  impulsion 


A   MEMORY. 


217 


among  a  hundred  others.  And,  as  they  flickered  by,  eerie 
but  ludicrous  in  their  contrast,  the  face  of  Mrs.  Earle 
became  drawn  .md  pale,  yet  having  th£||  flush  one  might 
expect  on  animated  marble.  The  features,  which,  over 
the  olives  and  fruit  of  the  Governor's  dinner,  were  as 
fresh  as  the  bloom  of  a  rose,  were  careworn  now.  There 
were  two  deep  vertical  lines  between  the  brows,  and  the 
lips  were  tightly  closed.  Yet,  not  to  see  her  face  was  to 
behold  a  woman  perfectly  at  her  ease.  The  delicate 
foot  was  thrust  forward  on  the  fender,  the  dress  was 
drawn  up,  exposing  a  white  shimmer  of  underskirt, 
and  the  flash  of  brilliant  rings  signalled  down  to  this 
whiteness. 

Suddenly  she  started  to  her  feet.  She  knew  now 
where  she  had  seen  him.  Her  hand  went  to  her  throat, 
as  if  to  relieve  it  of  something  painful. 

"  There  !  it  was  there  !  "  she  said  ;  "  that  Sunday  ! 
Oh,  how  I  hate  them  !  hate  them  that  put  me  there." 

Her  hand  went  up  to  her  forehead,  and  looking  into 
the  mirror  she  pushed  back  her  waving  brown  hair. 
She  exposed  a  scar  on  the  forehead.  No,  not  a  scar, 
but  a  star.  It  was  about  the  size  of  a  sixpence,  and  of 
the  most  delicate  and  exquisite  red.  Whether  it  was 
natural,  or  had  been  placed  there  by  a  cunning  hand,  it 
would  be  difficult  to  tell.  It  gave  her  face,  so  pale  now, 
a  weird  look.  Strange  how  this  splendid  hair,  shaken 
out  and  back  from  her  head,  and  this  little  thing,  should 
so  transform  her  !  It  was  not  a  disfigurement,  but  a 
translation.  Standing  there,  in  her  fleecy  evening  dress 
just  tinged  with  red,  her  bosom  beating  very  hard  against 
the  close-fitting  bodice,  her  head  thrown  back,  her  eyes 
afire,  she  looked  almost  like  a  priestess  of  some  an- 


m 


218 


m 


'!*■  I 


A    RICOCHET. 


cient  order.  An  unusual  woman  under  ordinary  cir- 
cumstances, she  was  most  unusual  now. 

"  He  does  not  remember,"  she  said  ;  "  and  perhaps  he 
never  may.  But  if  he  did,  I  could  not  bear  it  now.  I 
had  put  it  all  behind  me  so  long  ago." 

She  turned,  pulled  a  white  napkin  from  a  tray  upon 
the  table,  and,  standing  before  the  mirror,  arranged  it 
quickly  and  deftly  into  a  cap,  fronted  like  a  helmet. 

Then  she  laughed  a  dry,  mocking  laugh,  which  grew 
till  it  became  shrill  with  pain,  and  culminated  in  a  pas' 
sionate  outburst  of  tears  as  she  sank  into  a  chair. 


f 


■^-„     , . 

.  *  -     ■,  -  -    -" ,'  „ 

■••  ^. 

'-    II. 

.1 

A  Tournament. 

Molly  King  caljed  on  Mrs.  Earle, -the  call  was  re- 
turned, and  the  dinner-party  occurred.  Mrs.  Earle  held 
very  gay  court  that  night ;  not  a  court  which  women 
speak  well  of,  as  a  rule,  but  enjoyable  to  men.  This 
night,  as  it  had  occurred  before,  and  will  occur  again, 
those  who  were  nearest  to  the  throne  were  Adolph  La- 
trobe  and  Haldimand  Earle.  In  a  little  outer  circle  were 
Kerby  Wallack  and  an  aide-de-camp.  Which  of  the  first 
two  stood  nearest  ?  Haldimand  Earle  was  quite  certain 
in  his  own  mind  that,  if  his  wife  preferred  any  one  per- 
son before  another,  it  was  himself.  This  might  be  thought 
vanity  on  his  part.  There  was  one  who  did  not  appear 
much  in  the  little  court,  this  night.  But  then,  Lisgar 
King  was  impartial  in  his  attentions  in  his  own  house, 
and  he  did  not  neglect  little  Mrs.  Orde  or  others  of  the 
guests.     It  might  be  added,  however,  that  he  was  fasci- 


A    TOURNAMENT. 


219 


nated  by  Mrs.  Earle — as  what  man  was  not  ?  She  had 
the  power  of  interesting,  apart  from  her  person.  She  was 
witty,  caustic,  brilliant  ;  but  never  caustic  toward  people 
individually  ;  rather  upon  matters  of  life,  thought,  con- 
duct, and  the  universe.  And  through  it  all  there  played 
an  indefinable  grace  and  charming  languor.  Looking 
for  her  counterpart  in  manner  one  would  think  of  Miss 
Ellen  Terry  ;  for  Mrs.  Earle  was  an  actress,  too,  in  her 
little  world.  She  knew  that  she  possessed  the  power  to 
make  herself  felt  pleasantly  on  those  about  her — what 
scientists  call  catalysis,  or  the  action  of  presence.  Her 
general  theory  was,  however  :  "  Near  ;  but  not  too  near." 

From  such  general  theories  there  is  always  a  tangent. 
Where  was  th^  tangent  in  her  case  ?  The  ordinary  ob- 
server could  not  have  been  certain.  Only  a  keen  woman, 
with  some  of  Mrs.  Earle's  qualities,  and  interested  in 
some  man  of  that  court,  could.  Molly  King  could.  And 
Mrs.  Earle  knew  that  Molly  King  could  ;  but  she  knew, 
also,  that  Molly  could  not  tell  exactly  the  relation  of  the 
tangent  to  the  general  theory  or  to  her. 

"  Molly,  won't  you  sing,  and  ask  Mrs.  Earle  also  ?  '* 
said  little  Mrs.  Orde. 

"  I  was  just  about  to  sing.  I  did  not  know  that  Mrs. 
Earle  was  musical,"  Molly  pleasantly  responded. 

"  She  sings  beautifully  ;  with  all  the  sweetness  and 
accuracy  of  the  best  professionals." 

"  I  am  glad  of  that." 

"  She  is  going  to  sing  in  St.  Stephen's  Choir.  She 
loves  sacred  music." 

"  Does  she  ?  "  said  Lisgar  King ;  "  well,  the  choir  cer- 
tainly needs  help." 

But  Mrs.  Earle  could  not  sing,  she  said.    It  was  Satur- 


!|t^  '■ 


Wh 


|,iU| 


i 


220 


A    RICOCHET. 


1. 


i*   r 


day  night,  and  she  had  been  doctoring  her  throat  all  day 
for  a  slight  cold.  She  was  trying  to  get  in  form  to  sing 
a  solo  in  church  to-morrow.  Kerby  Wallack  said,  with  a 
breadth  of  compliment  found  in  the  hastily  risen  of  new 
lands  :  "  Say,  Mrs.  Earle,  is  that  so  ?  Then  The  Rev- 
erend Anthony  won't  be  anywhere.  You'll  lead  the 
whole  outfit !  " 

Mrs.  Earle  smiled  sweetly  at  this  splendid  mass  of 
physical  humanity,  with  brown  hair  and  beard.  "  Oh  ! 
But  what  does  *  lead  the  whole  outfit '  mean  ?  "  she 
asked. 

"  Why,  beat  them  generally.     Take  away  the  honors." 

"  Ah,  yes,  I  see,"  said  Mrs.  Earle.    But  she  saw  before. 

Molly  sang.  During  the  performance  Mrs.  Earle 
listened  with  an  interest  real  and  appreciative.  She 
loved  music  so  well  that  loyalty  to  it  might  almost  con- 
quer her  in  everything  else. 

"  Thank  you  much,"  she  said,  when  it  was  finished  ; 
"  who  was  your  master  ?  " 

"  I  had  no  master  of  any  note  ;  only  a  kind  of  train- 
ing in  Montreal,  and  a  year  in  Dresden  from  an  earnest 
teacher.    That  was  all."  , 

"  Do  you  knov.  ,ny  of  Lassen's  songs  ?" 

"Yes,  one — lliine  Eyes  so  Blue  and  Tender.'' 

"  Will  you  sing  it  ? " 

Again  Molly  sat  down.  Whether  it  was  the  admira- 
ble simplicity,  truth,  and  superiority  of  German  ballad 
music,  the  tenderness  of  the  subject,  or  that  the  song  was 
perfectly  within  her  range,  certain  it  is  she  sang  it  well. 
Leaning  back,  and  holding  her  fan  as  though  to  screen 
her  face  from  the  light,  Mrs.  Earle  watched  the  face  of 
Adolph  Latrobe.     He  was  absorbed  in  the  song.    What 


A    TOURNAMENT. 


221 


she  saw,  perhaps,  did  not  please  her.  She  closed  the 
fan  quickly,  and  laid  it  on  the  arm  of  her  chair :  in  such 
a  way,  however,  that,  a  moment  later,  it  dropped  to  the 
floor.  Adolph  Latrobe  handed  it  to  her  again.  Haldi- 
mand  Earle  had  started  to  do  the  same,  but  his  wife's 
eyes  were  on  the  other  man. 

After  the  song  Haldimand  Earle  came  forward,  paid 
his  compliments  to  Molly  King,  and  whispered  :  "  I  sup- 
pose I  oughtn't  to  say  anything  about  it,  but,  if  you 
could  get  my  wife  to  play,  I  think  you  would  find  it 
enjoyable.  She  is  one  of  the  few  who  interpret  Beetho- 
ven well." 

"  It  is  so  good  of  you  to  suggest  it,"  was  the  reply ; 
and  she  moved  to  where  Mrs.  Earle  sat.  But,  before  a 
word  of  request  could  be  uttered,  Mrs.  Earle  said  :  "  I 
know  what  you  are  going  to  ask  me.  My  husband  has 
brought  out  the  family  trumpet."  But  she  rose  as  she 
spoke,  and  immediately  expressed  her  willingness  to  play. 

"  I  shall  do  something  German,  too,  so  as  not  to  break 
your  spell  too  rudely." 

"  Ah,  but  it  takes  so  little  to  break  a  spell  of  my  weav- 
ing, Mrs.  Earle,"  said  Molly,  sweetly. 

Mrs.  Earle  quite  understood.  These  two  women  had 
a  language  of  their  own. 

Mrs.  Earle  sat  down  and,  without  the  score,  began  to 
play  one  of  Beethoven's  symphonies.  The  piano  was  a 
good  one — full-toned  and  of  splendid  compass.  The 
first  chords  struck  showed  the  thorough  musician.  The 
touch  was  firm,  masterful,  impelling.  Closing  the  eyes,  it 
might  be  thought  a  strong  man  was  playing,  not  a  deli- 
cate woman.  But  hers  was  the  eclTucated  hand,  and  her 
soul  was  in  her  fingers.     The  symphony  chosen  seemed 


'It 


i|  I 

'ill 

m 


222 


A   RICOCHET. 


:'  ^i 


W   J  .- 


one  that  had  grown  into  her,  or  into  which  she  had 
grown. 

"  *  Play  Lear ! '  said  Forrest  the  actor.  *  I  am 
Lear.'  " 

These  were  the  words  that  Adolph  Latrobe  repeated 
to  himself,  as,  standing  beside  the  mantel,  he  listened, 
with  his  forehead  shaded  by  his  hands,  and  his  eyes  full 
on  the  player's  face. 

Lisgar  King's  eyes  wandered  from  the  hands  to  the 
brow  of  the  woman,  as  she  played.  He  was  puzzled, 
excited.  He  felt  he  was  on  the  verge  of  a  memory. 
What  was  it  about  the  brow — the  hands  ?  He  could  not 
tell.  At  length  the  music  enwrapped  h.'  \  too,  com- 
pletely. He  felt  the  soul  of  some  one,  man  or  woman, 
his  own  or  some  other,  or  the  heart  of  mankind,  beating 
in  what  was  now  a  storm  of  melodious  sound  :  a  plaintive 
cry  for  deliverance,  an  inflooding  of  heaped-up  sorrows ; 
a  sound  of  war ;  a  moaning  subsidence  and  passing  of  loud 
conflict ;  and  then  a  growing  puissance  and  light,  which 
rose  from  a  palpitation  to  a  march  ;  from  a  march  to  a 
calm  and  regnant  pulse-beat  of  joy.  The  Shakespeare 
of  music  had  found  a  worthy  disciple. 

And  this  was  in  a  frontier  capital ! 

Mrs.  Earle  sat  for  a  moment,  her  eyes  averted  to  the 
keys,  before  she  rose  with  a  slight  gesture,  as  if  putting 
down  something.  To  consider  what  she  put  down  would 
be  to  consider  too  curiously. 

When  she  stepped  from  behind  the  piano,  it  was  to 
receive,  with  a  cordial  gayety,  the  congratulations  of 
her  grateful  audience. 

"You  must  have  a  great  memory,  Mrs.  Earle,"  said 
Kcrby  Wallack.     "  And  all  that  fingering,  too  !  " 


i 


A    TOURNAMENT. 


223 


Latrobe  swore  at  Wallack  under  his  breath. 

"  Oh,  I  worked  at  it  for  a  long  time,"  placidly  said 
Mrs.  Earle. 

"  I  once  heard  a  fellow  say  that  to  Verdi,  about  his 
memory,  after  he  had  conducted  one  of  his  own  compo- 
sitions," said  Latrobe  to  King  afterward  ;  "  and  Verdi 
turned  and  replied,  *  Thank  you,  Mr. — oh,  what  is  your 
name  ?  '     He  had  met  the  fellow  many  times." 

Mrs.  Earle  would  not  sit.  No,  she  really  must  go  and 
get  her  beauty-sleep,  or  she  would  not  dare  to  enter  the 
lists  with  "  the  whole  outfit "  to-morrow.  She  smiled 
as  she  said  it,  at  Kerby  Wallack,  who  smiled  in  reply, 
suspecting  no  satire  and  looking  more  robustiously 
assertive  than  usual.  - 

In  the  library,  while  discussing  a  farewell  salutation 
— with  soda,  Haldimand  Earle  said  :  "Come  round  and 
have  supper  with  us  to-morrow  night,  Latrobe  ;  and,  if 
you  haven't  anything  better  to  do,  run  in  also,  Wallack. 
I  lj:now  you  are  due  at  the  Rectory,  King,  and,  of  course, 
can't  come." 

Both  men  thfmked  him,  but  Wallack  said  :  "  I  am  going 
to  Selkirk  to-morrow  night.  I  was  going  in  the  morn- 
ing, but  I'll  stay  and  hear  Mrs.  Earle  sing." 

"And  say  your  prayers,"  interposed  Latrobe. 

"  I  hope  my  wife  will  be  in  good  form,"  added 
Earle. 

Latrobe  had  heard  footsteps  on  the  stairs,  and  was 
in  the  hall  before  the  other  men  got  out.  He  was  there 
to  assist  Mrs.  Earle  with  her  seal-skin  jacket.  There 
seemed  no  reason  why  she  did  not  put  it  on  upstairs. 
Molly  King  noticed  that  Latrobe's  fingers  lingered  for 
an  instant  on  Mrs.  Earle's  shoulders— ^nly  a  breath,  as 


!         Ii 


,1 


i' 

11 

1 

,| 

.•'''' 

M 

> 

Us 

1 

p 


Pi 


224 


^  RrcocrfET. 


it  were— not  to  be  seen  by  an  ordinary  onlooker.  But 
Molly  King  was  not  an  ordinary  onlooker.  And  Mrs. 
Earle  knew  that,  for  she  turned  (juirkly,  buttoning  her 
jacket  as  she  did  so,  and  a  flash  of  defiance  showed 
in  her  eyes.  But  she  said,  as  she  held  out  her  hand : 
"  You  should  learn  more  of  Lassen's  songs,  dear.  They 
suit  you." 

"  I  shall  need  to,  if  I  am  to  preface  your  beautiful 
playing  of  Beethoven's  symphonies,"  was  the  smooth 
reply. 

And  no  one  there  guessed  that  thCvse  two  women  were 
crossing  swords. 


M 


■  ■>  ■,  ■    III.  ;    ,"-,  .    '  ; 

A  Parlry. 

In  spite  of  the  litter  cold  St.  Stephen's  was  full.  It 
had  gone  abroad  that  Mrs.  Earle  was  going  to  sing. 
There  were  also  fanciful  reports  about  concerning  her 
powers.  Miss  Pattie  Rowan  had  hinted  that  Mrs.  Earle 
was  an  opera  singer  before  she  married,  and  that  she 
had  sung  in  the  playhouses  of  London  and  Berlin. 
And  as  testimony,  she  referied  to  the  visit  of  Herr 
Sonnenschien,  the  violinist,  the  week  before,  and  the 
ease  and  familiarity  with  which  Mrs.  Earle  conversed 
with  him  in  German.  But  Miss  Pattie  Rowan  had  left 
another  capital  because  of  mischief-making,  and  people 
did  not  listen  belie vingly  to  her. 

The  Christmas  decorations  had  not  yet-  been  taken 
down,  and  the  chancel  looked  warm  and  beautiful.  The 
light  was  softened,  as  it  streamed  through  the  staii^ed- 


A   PARLEY. 


22$ 


glass  windows,  and,  healthily  aglow  as  the  faces  of  the 
congregation  were,  there  seemed  nothing  to  be  desired 
but  piety,  fine  singing,  and  good  preaching  to  make  an 
ideal  service. 

l/isgar  King  and  his  sister  sat  in  a  side  pew,  where 
they  had  an  excellent  view  of  the  choir  without  turning 
round.  In  the  chants  and  the  first  hymn  Mrs.  Earle's 
voice  was  not  noticed  above  the  rest,  though  there  was  a 
fulness  and  richness  in  the  singing,  never  before  heard 
in  St.  Stephen's.  But  just  before  the  sermon  Spohr's 
anthem,  As  Pants  the  Hart  for  Cooling  Streams^  was 
announced.  Years  after,  Lisgar  King  remembered  his 
sensations  when  these  words  were  read — this  overture 
to  a  new  work  by  the  composer.  Life.  He  sees  to  this 
day  the  smooth-faced,  talented  minister  in  his  white 
robe,  the  black-and-white  silk  of  his  academic  hood, 
his  eyes  raised  to  the  choir  in  expectancy,  the  waiting 
people,  and  the  burst  of  sunlight  making  the  figures  in 
the  chancel  window  a  benediction  of  beauty. 

"As  pants  the  hart  for  cooling  streams "  • 

And  now  one  voice  sang  it  alone  : 
**  '•  When  heated  in  the  chase " 


.m 


I 


Lisgar  King's  mind  was  excited.     He  looked  toward 
the  choir,  and  saw  a  wealth  of  golden  hair  ;  he  heard  a 
voice  of  the  rarest  sweetness  and  sympathy  ;  and  then 
back,  back  from  year  to  year  his  menr.ury  travelled  back , 
ten,  fifteen  years — 

'*  And  Thy  refreshing  grace " 


m 


There  was  a  sudden  illuminating  delight,  a  penetrat- 


226 


A   RICOCHET. 


■\ 


\\ 


B,'* 

kf 


If 


^! 


I    H. 


i 


I 


ing  sweetness  to  the  voice.  His  horizon  grew  vivid,  and 
then  he  remembered. 

"Yes,  there  !  "  he  said.  ^ 

All  at  once  the  singer's  voice  trembled  and  nearly 
died  away,  before  it  rose  again,  clear  and  triumphant, 
and  vanished  in  a  plenitude  of  feeling  and  power.  She, 
too,  had  remembered.  Why  had  she  chosen  this  an- 
them ?  It  is  as  yet  unsolvable  by  tjie  world,  why  those 
in  moral  anxiety  do  the  thing  most  dangerous  to  their 
peace  and  safety.  But  this  woman  had  a  daring  will 
and  valour  of  a  most  curious  kind.  She  feared  one 
man,  and  what  that  man  might  do,  if  he  remembered  ; 
and  yet  she  helped  him  all  she  could  to  remember. 
Hers  was  a  kind  of  prowess  that  would  put  all  to  the 
test  and  end  all  soon.  ' 

Lisgar  King  heard  no  word  of  the  sermon.  He 
scarcely  was  conscious  of  where  he  was,  so  busy  were 
his  thoughts  across  the  sea,  until  he  heard,  as  in  a  dream, 
the  clergyman  say :  ''''And  we  humbly  beseech  Thee,  O 
Lord,  to  comfort  and  succour  all  those  who,  in  this  tran- 
sitory life,  are  in  trouble,  sorroia,  need,  sickness,  or  any 
other  adversity'' 

And  he  said,  as  if  in  response — '*  Poor  woman !  "       ^ 

There  would  come  a  time  when  he  would  not  be  pre- 
pared to  say  that,  and  yet  again  another  time  when  he 
would  say  it. 

That  night,  at  the  Rectory,  the  Reverend  Anthony 
.  Devon  was  profusely  cordial  in  his  praise  of  Mrs.  Earle's 
singing.  Her  solo  in  the  evening  had  been  even  more 
effective  than  that  of  the  morning. 

"  She  must  have  had  the  most  thorough  training  in 
church  music,"  said  the  organist,  who  was  eating  Mrs. 


A    PARLEY. 


227 


Devon's  salad  with  the  decisive  relish  of  an  artistic  soul. 
"  She  knows  the  whole  range  of  oratorio  and  chant  and 
hymnal  music.  She  could  make  her  fortune  in  a  New 
York  choir.  I  haven't  heard  her  sing  operatic  music, 
but  her  familiarity  with  its  technique  and  literature  is 
bewildering." 

"  Add  to  this  a  power  to  interpret  Beethoven  like  a 
master,  and  nothing  more  need  be  said,"  suggested 
Lisgar  King. 

"She  has  more  nerve — in  her  fingers — than  any  woman 
I  ever  met,"  said  Molly. 

Her  brother  looked  up  quickly,  and  the  organist  paused, 
in  the  precipitation  of  salad,  to  digest  this  remark  by 
itself ;  but  Molly  looked  innocent  of  any  hir'den  mean- 
ing in  her  words.  She  was  feeding  the  curate  with 
sweet  biscuits.  Lest  Molly  may  be  misunderstood,  it 
should  be  mentioned  that  the  curate  was  The  Reverend 
Anthony's  mastiff  (every  one  called  the  rector  "The 
Reverend  Anthony  ").  -     ^ 

"  She  has  said  that  she  will  help  us  with  our  bazaar," 
said  The  Reverend  A.nthony,  "  and^  if  it  isn't  wicked  to 
trade  on  wit,  beauty,  and  talent,  I  fancy  we  shall,  as  a 
parish,  increase  in  wealth  thereby." 

"  When  does  the  bazaar  begin  ?  "  asked  Molly,  balanc- 
ing a  biscuit  on  the  curate's  nose. 

"On  Thursday  next." 

"  Oh,  then,  you  are  quite  safe  ;  the  W.,  B.  &  T. 
couldn't  easily  vanish  before  then,  could  it  ? " 

The  curate's  jaws  snapped  viciously,  and  the  organist 
put  down  his  knife  and  fork,  and  stared. 

"The  W.,  B.  &  T.  ?"  said  The  Reverend  Anthony, 
rather  faintly.  <  ;. 


228 


A   RfCOCHET, 


\\. 


\  \\ 


&.: 


"  Wit,  Beauty,  and  Talent — how  stupid  you  are,  An- 
thony !  "  quickly  added  Mrs.  Devon. 

•*  No,  no  ;  ot  course  not.     Quite  so." 

Then  The  Reverend  Anthony  saw  that  he  had  made  a 
mistake.  For  others  besides  Mrs.  Earle  in  his  congregation 
had  wit  and  beauty.  Molly  King  had.  And  Molly  was  not 
without  that  special  talent  to  which  the  rector  referred. 

Molly  had  had  her  revenge — an<^  now,  as  if  she  had 
meant  nothing  at  all,  she  said  in  explanation  : 

"  You  know  the  old  lines — 

"  Things  most  beautiful,  most  quickly  pass  ; 
Seize,  then,  the  wonder  ere  it  passes." 

Lisgar  King  said  to  himself  :  "  Molly  has  wit.  It's 
odd  that  she  should  be  so  antagonistic  to  Mrs.  Earle — 
sweetly  antagonistic  though,  if  she  is  my  sister.  But  if 
she  knew !  *' 

On  the  way  home  he  said  :  **  You  were  cutting  rather 
close  at  Mrs.  Earle,  Molly." 

"  Was  I,  really  ?  " 

"  Yes.     What  have  you  against  her?  " 

Molly  parried.  "  You  know  it  wasn't  quite  gallant  of 
The  Reverend  Anthony  to  lay  all  the  possible  success  of 
the  bazaar  at  the  feet  of  Mrs.  Earle.  He  might  have 
remembered  that  there  are  lots  of  pretty  girls  in  his 
congregation — good,  clever  girls,  too — who  are  to  have 
stalls." 

"  But  you  expect  truth,  not  gallantry,  from  a  parson, 
Molly." 

"  How  comes  The  Reverend  Anthony  to  be  innocent 
of  either,  Gar  ? " 

"  Fie,  Molly  !  " 


A   PARLEY, 


229 


"  Then,  don't  tempt  me." 

"  Are  you  going  to  the  bazaar  ? " 

**  Of  course  1  am,  and  mind  you  come  and  bring  a 
lot  of  the  fellows  from  the  club,  and  buy  of  me  ;  me^ 
you  understand — then  you  can  go  and  buy  of  the  W.,  B. 
&  T." 

"  Oh,  very  well,  I'll  come.     Thursday,  is  it  ?  " 

"Yes.  Now,  that's  good  of  you.  Gar.  But  what 
makes  you  so  quiet  to-day  ?  Your  sins  ?  Or  is  some- 
thing wrong  in  a  business  way  ?  "         4 

"  Everything  is  right,  I  think,  in  business.  And  that 
reminds  me — do  you  care  to  put  another  ten  thousand 
in  the  Crescent  lots  ?  I  think  it's  quite  safe.  If  all 
goes  well  we  shall  clear  enough  out  of  the  Boom  to 
enable  us  to  pull  pegs  here,  and  live  in  Ottawa,  or  Lon- 
don, or  Paris,  luxuriously  housed  and  clothed." 

"  You  know  I  trust  your  judgment,  Gar.  Do  what 
you  think  best.  Only,  for  fear  of  chances,  keep  a  good 
reserve  uninvested,  won't  you  ?  " 

"  Seven  thousand  dollars  for  each  ;  that  is  enough  in 
a  new  conntry.     Some  have  every  penny  sunk." 

There  was  a  moment's  pause,  then  Molly  said  :  "  Did 
you  like  Mrs.  Earle's  singing  to-day  ?  " 

"  Yes,  greatly.     Did  you  ?  "  ^ 

"  It  was  beautiful.  It  was  as  if  she  was  born  to  the 
sound  of  music,  and  church  music  at  that !  " 

"  Perhaps  she  was.     I  felt  that  too." 

**  Is  Mr.  Earle  making  money  ?  " 

"  Yes,  a  good  deal.  He  had  invested  in  lands  here, 
before  he  came,  and  it  has  turned  out  well.  He  buys 
carefully.  Then,  his  position  has  a  good  salary  at- 
tached." 


.^i 


^1 


230 


A   RICOCHET. 


U  v:\ 


<  ■ 

\ 
j 

V 

1 

It  ■  !         y-. 


:S   / 


h- 


'lll 


-  * 


"  He  admires  his  wife  greatly." 

**  Yes,  and  without  its  being  obtrusive." 

"  Mrs.  Earle  is  to  give  a  musical  evening  soon." 

*'  Shall  you  go  ?  " 

*•  Yes,  if  I  am  asked.     Why  not  ?  " 

"  There  isn't  any  *  why  '  that  I  know  of,  only  1  thought 
you  didn't  like  her." 

Lisgar  King's  brain  had  been  working  a  good  deal 
'•'nee  they  left  the  Rectory,  and  he  had  formed  a  very 
likely  theory.  Xo  Molly's  repeated  "  why  "  he  said  : 
"Because — let  us  be  plain,  Molly — because  there's  a 
man  in  it." 

"  Now  that's  nonsense.  Gar." 

"  I  know  that ;  but  it's  true." 

"  That  she  doesn't  like  me  ?" 

"  No.     That  there's  a  man  in  it." 

By  this  time  they  were  in  the  house,  and  he  was  help- 
ing Molly  to  take  off  her  jacket.  She  laid  it  over  her 
arm,  stretched  out  her  hand  to  the  radiant  heat  of  the 
coal-stove  as  she  started  up  the  staircase,  and  said  : 
"And  what  will  become  of  the  man  ?  " 

"That  depends." 

"On  what?" 

"On  the  other  woman." 

"How?" 

"  On  whether  or  not  she  draws  a  line  of  demarcation, 
rigidly  standing  within  which  she  has  safety  ana  power ; 
not  standing  so,  she  becomes  a  Delilah  without  a  Samson 
— for  I  think  I  know  the  stuff  of  which  Latrobe  is  made." 

"  Oh,  Gar  !  "     And  Molly  vanished  up  the  staircase. 

"Latrobe  is  under  Mrs.  Earle's  influence,"  King  said 
to  himself  ;  "  and  in  an  age  of  easy  morals,  no  wonder. 


A   PARLEY, 


231 


Such  women  are  ready  to  do  everything  but  give  un- 
questionable ground  for  divorce."  He  quite  forgot  to 
say,  "  Poor  woman  !  "  now.  Family  selfishness  was  rul- 
ing him.     For  Molly's  sake  he  hardened. 

Perhaps  Lisgar  King  was  not  quite  right  in  his  esti- 
mate of  the  character  of  Mrs.  Earle.  His  analysis  was 
narrow,  and  he  was  too  near  the  event  of  the  morning  to 
get  a  proper  perspective.  Still,  had  he  been  at  "  The 
Pines"  (the  residence  *"  Haldimand  Earle)  at  that 
moment,  his  conviction,  just  expressed,  had  been 
strengthened,  so  far  as  Mrs.  Earle  was  concerned.  In 
her  mind  the  principle  of  "  Near ;  yet  not  too  near,"  was 
having  a  fight  for  life.  Her  salvation  lay  in  the  vitality 
of  this  principle,  and  in  the  man.  Perhaps  her  greatest 
safety  lay  in  the  man.  Lisgar  King  paused  in  slicing 
his  tobacco  and  said  to  himself  :  "  It  is  certain  Earle 
doesn't  know.  He  told  me  incidentally  that  he  had  mar- 
ried his  wife  from  her  aunt's  home  in  Boston,  just  before 
the  old  lady  died,  and  that  that  death  closed  up  the 
list  of  her  relatives.  She  hadn't  another,  not  even  a 
country  cousin.  And  her  aunt's  name  was  Marland,  was 
it  ?  Poor  devil !  Latrobe  is  worth  a  better  fate  than  to 
be  her  devoted  slave,  although  he's  acting  like  a  fool  ! 
Molly  is  evidently  interested  in  Latrobe  ;  which,  in  the 
circumstances,  is  unpleasant.  I  wonder,  if  I  gave  Mrs. 
Earle  a  hint — confound  this  pipe  !  " 

Next  morning  a  newspaper  announced  that  Adolph 
L-itiobe  was  starting  for  Ottawa  on  business,  to  be  gone 
a  month.  In  the  afternoon  he  might  have  been  seen 
sitting  in  the  drawing-room  at  "  The  Pines,"  and  stand- 
ing beside  a  small  table  was  Mrs.  Earle,  pouring  him 
a  cup  of  tea.     She  did  not  ask  him  if  he  would  take 


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cream  and  RUgar.  She  knew— which  is  a  very  good  sign 
of  a  woman's  interest  in  a  mar. 

"  You  arc  going  to-nighi,"  sl.e  said. 

"Yes,  I  start  at  nine." 

"  For  how  long?** 

**  For  six  weeks,  perhaps.** 

"Oh  !  You  will  be  just  in  time  for  the  close  of  the 
Rideau  Hall  gayeties.** 

"I  suppose  so." 

And  these  two  people,  thus  alone,  held  things  quite  on 
the  surface.  When  not  alone  there  seemed  greater  diffi- 
culty in  keeping  them  so.  A  keen  spectator — MoUie 
King,  for  instance — could  see  the  fighting  inclination  of 
this  woman  to  show  her  preference  for  this  man  ;  to  have 
him  near  her.  In  private,  however,  she  seemed  to  carry 
a  shield  and  defend  herself  against  herself. 

After  half  an  hour's  interesting  conversation, — for 
she  was  interesting — that,  at  least — in  all  she  did— he 
rose  to  go.  He  bowed  over  her  hand.  "  Good-by,"  he 
said. 

"Good-by,"  she  replied;  "a  pleasant  journey — and 
quick  return." 

His  hand  was  on  the  door.  He  turned  and  walked 
back  towards  her  impulsively,  but  she  drew  herself  up 
and  looked  him  steadily  in  the  eye.  The  man  in  him 
conquered.  He  turned  again  and  passed  from  the  room. 
She  ad  invited,  yet  repelled.  And  such  is  such  a 
woman.  She  stood  perfectly  still  for  a  moment,  looking 
at  the  door  through  which  he  had  just  passed  ;  then  she 
rang  the  bell.     The  servant  came. 

"  I  am  not  at  home,  Jeanette,  to  any  one.  When  your 
master  comes,  tell  him  that  I  am  here,  resting." 


^Ar-i 


A   VAHLEY. 


234 


Then  she  lay  down.  Yesterday's  excitement  was 
wearing  on  her  now.  She  felt  she  must  rest,  if  she  was 
to  play  her  hrilliant  part  well.  She  had  begun  her  sea- 
son, had  given  audience,  and  she  must  keep  faith  with 
her  courtiers.  Mrs.  Earlc  never  lost  a  trick  through 
carelessness,  though  she  lost  one  the  day  before  through 
daring.  She  knew  the  art  of  living  up  to  a  certain  point. 
She  had  yet  to  learn  it  beyond  that  point,  and  in  the 
region  where  the  affections  are  working.  Reckoning 
can  always  be  made  except  in  that  climate.  Up  to  this 
winter,  admiration,  power  over  men,  and  superiority  over 
women,  were  a  necessity  to  her.  They  were  still ;  but 
there  was  now,  brooding  on  her,  something  more.  Per- 
haps if  she  had  had  a  child,  or  loved  her  husband — but 
let  us  be  careful  :  it  is  easy  to  give  everlasting  bias. 

She  slept.  One  arm  was  thrown  over  her  H/jra  and 
the  other  lay  lightly  at  her  side.  She  compelleci  herself 
to  sleep,  and  to  sleep  well  ;  so  well,  that  her  forehead 
was  dewy  with  that  moisture  which  comes  to  the  faces 
of  children,  and  with  the  relaxation  following  great 
nervous  strain.  Most  husbands  would  have  done  what 
Haldimand  Earle  did  when  he  came  in — at  least,  with 
such  a  wife.  He  looked  at  her  first,  and  said :  "  How 
beautiful,  how  peaceful !  "  and  then  he  stooped  and 
kissed  her  where  the  firelight  played  on  her  hair  and 
forehead.  He  kissed  her  where  the  star  was  hid.  among 
the  hair.     She  woke  suddenly. 

"  Bui  you  must  not,  indeed,"  she  said,  starting  up. 

He  laughed.     "  Indeed  !  must  I  not  ?  "  ' 

"  Oh,  it  was  you  !  " — she  caught  her  breath.  "  What 
did  I  say  ? " 

"  You  said  :  '  But  you  must  not,  indeed.' 


1 


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234 


A   RICOCHET, 


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A  sigh  escaped  her,  but  she  responded,  airily  :  "  Well, 
you  shouldn't  have  waked  me  that  way." 

"  But,  do  you  know,  your  protest  sounded  more  like  an 
invitation  than  a  prohibition  ? " 

What  she  really  thought  may,  or  may  not,  have  been 
conveyed  in  her  reply  :  "  Haldimand,  you  have  grown 
vain  since  you  married  me.  You  are  too  sure  of  yourself." 

"  That's  a  bit  severe,  when  I  have  to  steal  my  kisses. 
By  the  way,  I've  asked  Wallack  up  for  a  pipe  to-night. 
You  could  have  a  bit  of  supper  for  us,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Yes.     Why  do  you  ask  him  here  so  much  ?  " 

"  Well.,  he  is  one  of  the  most  prominent,  if  not  the 
most  prominent  of  the  men  in  the  Boom,  and  it  is  in  my 
interest  to  keep  on  terms  with  him.  He  has  helped  me 
to  some  good  things  already." 

"Very  likely."     Again  she  was  daring. 

Earle  looked  at  her  inquiringly,  and  then  went  on  : 
"  A  few  more  tips  of  the  kind,  and  we  have  a  fortune." 

"  You  don't  keep  me  informed  of  all  these  things." 

"I  always  thought  you  disliked  to  discuss  business." 

"  I  have  changed.  I  am  going  to  let  you  invest  my 
little  nest-egg."  *  - 

"  Capital  !  But,  see  here,  ask  Wallack  about  it  to- 
night." ■  .  •  y 

And  thus  the  complication  grew. 

Presently  Earle  said  :  "  Marie,  did  you  know  La- 
trobe  was  going  to  Ottawa  ?  "  "^ 

"  Yes,  he  called  here  this  afternoon.  He  left  a  note 
for  you — he  couldn't  find  you  in  town.  It  is  on  the 
writing-table." 

He  got  the  note  and  read  it.     "  Marie  !  "  .     . 

"  Again,  yes  !  " 


j4   parley. 


235 


"  I  believe  Latrobc  fancies  Molly  King." 

She  was  arranging  her  collar  at  the  mirror.  "  Oh  !  " 
she  said,  sharply. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  " 

"  I  hurt  myself  with  the  pin."  Her  face  was  turned 
away  from  him. 

"  I'm  sorry."  A  pause.  "  Did  you  hear  what  I 
said  ? "  • 

"  Yes."     Still  she  did  not  look  his  way. 

"  Why  don't  you  express  surprise,  or  something  ?  " 

"  Didn't  I  ?  " 

"  Of  course  you  didn't." 

"  What  makes  you  think  this  ?  "  she  added. 

"  Oh,  little  things  I've  seen.  And  in  this  note  he  pro- 
poses to  take  Lisgar  and  Molly  into  our  syndicate." 

"  And  what  do  you  propose  ?  "  She  looked  keenly 
interested. 

"  I  don't  know." 

**  Don't  take  them  in."  Her  voice  was  firm  and 
decisive. 

"Why?" 

- "  Keep  the  thing  in  your  own  hands.     A  woman,  as 
actors  say,  will  *  queer  the  show.'  " 

"  Pat,  but  slangy.  Where  did  you  get  hold  of  stage 
argot,  my  dear  ?  "  he  laughingly  asked. 

She  laughed  :  "  You  forget  I  used  to  act  and  sing  Tor 
charities  in  Boston.     We  had  an  old  actor  to  coach  us." 

"  That  was  before  you  began  to  make  a  sumptuous 
fortune  by  singing  in  that  swagger  New  York  choir,  and 
before  I  knew  you." 

*'  Yes.  I  suppose  you  haven't  regretted  depriving 
that  swagger  choir  of  so  valuable  a  member  ?  " 


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236 


A   RICOCHET, 


For  reply  he  raised  her  hand  and  kissed  her  wedding 
ring. 

"  A  very  pretty  negation,"  she  said.  "  Let  us  go  to 
dinner." 

Kerby  Wallack  came  that  night,  and  was  only  too  de- 
lighted to  give  Mrs.  Earle  ^'the  straight  tip,"  as  he 
called  it. 


\m 


IV. 

An  Invasion. 

Thursday  arrived.  The  b~zaar  was  opened  by  the 
Lieutenant  Governor,  assisved,  as  usual,  by  his  aide-de- 
camp and  private  secretary  in  one.  It  was  sometimes 
difficult  to  know  which  was  the  more  important.  His 
Excellency  or  Mr.  Regard,  The  latter  uttered  privately 
addenJa  of  compliments  to  those  of  his  illustrious  chief. 
Many  of  the  compliments  were  paid  to  Mrs.  Earle.  He 
was  about  to  repeat  them  to  Molly  King,  but  she,  stand- 
ing in  a  group  of  pretty  girls,  said  :  "  Really,  you  need 
not,  Mr.  Regard.  It  isn't  fair  you  should  have  to  be 
complimentary.  I'm  sure  Mrs.  Earle  told  you  so. 
Take  a  cup  of  tea  or  cocoa.  Do !  .  .  .  There 
now,  that's  better.  This  cream  is  from  Selkirk,  this 
butter  is  from  Portage  la  Prairie,  the  bread  is  home- 
made,— my  make  and  Mrs.  Orde's  oven — and  put  a 
compliment  in  for  the  sugar,  won't  you  ? " 

Lisgar  King  arrived  with  Haldimand  Earle  and  some 
other  men  about  five  o'clock.  Part  of  the  men  went 
with  Earle  to  his  wife's  stall,  and  the  rest  went  with 
Lisgar  King  to  where  his  sister  sold  soft  moccasins. 


AN  INVASION. 


237 


embroidered  buckskin  belts,  toques  and  knitted  silk 
sashes  for  toboganning,  wool  and  deer-skin  smoking 
caps,  and  other  paraphernalia  of  bachelors'  quarters. 

Several  of  Lisgar  King's  companions  were  officers  of 
the  Mounted  Infantry  School.  They  were  in  uniform, 
and  looked  handsome  enough  for  Aldershot.  They  had 
nothing  of  the  air  of  blasi  men  of  Pall  Mall,  not  a  sign 
of  that  jolly  impudence  of  the  naval  officer,  nor  the  in- 
dolent passivity  of  the  army  man,  who  wants  to  be  talked 
to  and  amused,  and  not  himself  to  be  the  entertainer. 
These  were  men  of  action,  of  vigour,  and  of  fresh  and 
healthy  social  tone,  not  having  too  much  of  women's 
society  to  get  spoiled,  having  more  than  enough  to  do, 
and  filled  with  the  spirit  of  progress.  Their  ideas  of 
life  did  not  consist  in  unlimited  brandies  and  sodas  and 
the  creatioi/of  new  sensations,  ranging  from  amateur 
theatricals  to  a  tiger  hunt  or  a  flirtation.  They  were 
gathered  from  many  sources.  One  had  served  with 
Wolseley  as  a  subaltern  in  the  Ashantee  War,  and  again 
with  him  in  Zululand  ;  a  second  had  been  a  private  sec- 
retary to  a  diplomatist  ;  and  another  an  officer  in  the 
India  mounted  police.  The  rest  were  native  Cana- 
dianF — straight-limbed,  clear-faced,  nimble-brained,  and 
adaptable  ;  free  of  speech  to  ingenuousness,  dealing  little 
in  convtisational  juggling,  and  with  straightforward, 
prudent  ideas  of  life. 

It  was  noticeable  that  in  ten  minutes  most  of  the  older 
men  had  gravitated  to  Mrs.  Earle's  stall,  leaving  the 
younger  men  in  the  bright  company  of  which  Molly 
King  was  the  illuminating  centre.  Lisgar  King  was 
in  the  circle  which  was  doing  homage  at  Mrs.  Earle's 
stall. 


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238 


A   RICOCHET. 


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"  How  splendidly  she  manages  them  !  "  he  said  ;  "  and 
that  in  her  life,  all  the  time." 

And  she,  brilliantly  disposing  of  her  wares,  sighed  to 
herself,  between  her  smiles :  "  If  he  remembered — 
that ! " 

Lisgar  King  walked  towards  the  door  where  The 
Reverend  Anthony  was  entering.  On  his  way  he  met 
Haldimand  Earle,  who  s..''d  :  "I  believe  you  and  Miss 
King  are  going  over  to  the  Rectory  for  supper— would 
you  mind  taking  my  wife  with  you  ?  I  find  I  have  to  go 
down  town.  There  is  more  political  influence  inter- 
fering in  the  Souris  Surveys,  and  I'm  wanted." 

"  Delighted.    You'll  be  along  later,  I  suppose  ? " 

"  Oh,  yes." 

After  greetings.  The  Reverend  Anthony  said  :  "  Now, 
if  you  gentlemen  are  interested '  in  beautiful  sunsets,  I 
should  advise  you  to  go  out  and  see  one." 

"  Let  us  ask  the  ladies.  They  are  supposed  to  be 
critics  in  colour,"  said  Lisgar  King. 

"  Oh,  very  well,"  replied  The  Reverend  Anthony  ;  "  I'll 
bring  Miss  King,  if  she  will  come.  It  is  nearly  time  we 
were  going  to  the  Rectory,  too." 

Haldimand  Earle  made  his  apologies,  and  departed. 
Lisgar  King  said  to  himself  :  "  I  should  like  to  be  abso- 
lutely sure  about  that.  One  thing  would  settle  it  beyond 
peradventure — the  star ;  but  her  hair  covers  her  fore- 
head so  !     The  chance  may  come  to-night." 

He  asked  Mrs.  Earle  to  come  and  see  a  winter  picture 
recommended  by  The  Reverend  Anthony,  She  imme- 
diately came  forward,  leaving  her  stall  in  the  hands  of 
her  prettiest  assistants,  and  went  with  him,  smiling. 
Again  she  was  daring.    She  did  not  glance  towards  any  of 


AN  INVASION. 


239 


''1! 


the  other  men,  so  none  other  came.  As  they  neared 
the  door  Mrs.  Earle  drew  herself  up  with  a  nervous 
motion — as  if  her  bodice  hurt  her.  Yet  her  lips  still 
smiled.  They  passed  out,  and,  leaving  the  pathway, 
stepped  upon  the  crusted  snow  of  the  common,  where 
the  view  was  quite  unobstructed.  In  the  wonder  of  th?t 
sky  everything  else  was  set  aside  for  a  moment.  They 
were  both  absorbed  in  it ;  he  that  held,  or  thought  he 
held,  the  secret  of  a  life;  she  who  dreaded  that  he 
knew  her  secret.  It  was  a  kind  of  anaesthetic  before 
an  operation. 

Far  to  the  horizon  stretched  level  plains  of  Irost; 
upon  it,  here  and  there,  a  farmhouse  white  with  fallen 
snow.  This  fleecy  sea  melted  into  another  sea  of 
crimson,  which  beat  splendours  against  vast  mountains 
of  gold,  pink-crested,  and  flanked  by  ranges  of  purple 
and  ruby  hills.  Between  the  mountains  were  wide 
and  tawny  valleys.  Along  the  hills  there  marched 
armies  of  giants  in  red  and  violet,  bending  towards  the 
pink-crested  mountains — a  general  mass  of  puissance. 
Upon  the  loftiest  mountain  there  stood  a  stalwart  figure 
with  arms  outstretched  toward  the  north — the  frozen, 
summerless,  nightless  land.  August,  unapproachable, 
in  a  realm  of  light  and  invading  shadow,  stood  the 
monarch  of  this  buoyant  universe.  A  far  and  lonely 
continent  it  seemed,  rising  from  a  savage  plain.  Like 
an  army  of  sentinels  on  the  walls  of  a  proud,  unspoiled 
city  marched  the  ruddy  squadrons,  brave  in  shield 
and  buckler ;  and  tawnier  for  a  moment  grew  the 
mighty  valley  beneath.  This  :  and  then  an  amber  vapour 
seemed  to  rise  from  the  sea,  and,  growing  into  gray, 
then   into   a   mournful  blue,  swallowed  up  the  sunset 


240 


A   RICOCHET. 


\     : 


world.  The  august  figure  fled;  the  numberless  phal- 
anxes vanished  ;  and  with  a  red  seal  upon  the  concave 
tomb  of  them  the  night  fell.  The  watchers  faced  each 
other. 

"  I  can  understand  your  favourite  musician,  Beethoven, 
getting  inspiration  from  a  scene  like  this/'  he  said. 

"  And  what  do  you  think  would  be  suggested  to  his 
mind  ? " 

**  You  could  answer  that  better  than  I.  You  get  into 
his  meaning  so.     I  am  not  imaginative  nor  artistic." 

"  Yet  you  like  music." 

"  Yes.  *  Like  *  is  a  mild  term  to  use.  I  am  particularly 
fond  of  oratorio  and  sacred  music  generally,  though 
I'm  not  religious.  You  also  seem  to  be  fond  of  sacred 
music." 

"Yes,  and,  I  am  afraid,  without  being  very  reli- 
gious. It's  the  elevating  art  of  it  that  charms  me,  I 
suppose." 

"When  I  was  in  London,  years  ago,  I  used'  to  attend 
service  twice  on  Sunday  to  hear  the  music." 

"  Yes  ? "  She  drew  herself  together.  "  And  what 
service  pleased  you  best  ?  " 

There  was  a  pause,  and  then  he  said  with  impressive 
meaning :  "  That  at  the  Foundling  Hospital  in  Guildford 
Street."    He  watched  her  closely. 

She  paled  a  little  about  the  lips  and  turned  her  head 
away  slightly ;  that  was  all. 

**  Yes,  it  has  a  good  choir."  Her  voice  was  slightly 
husky. 

"  Ah,  you  know  !  I  shall  never  forget  the  last  morn- 
ing I  attended  service  there." 

"Indeed,  why?"    Her  voice  had  changed  in   two 


h 


AN  INVASION. 


241* 


sentences  from  cloudiness  to  steely  clearness.  Her 
eyes  were  now  steady  and  hard. 

'*The  principal  soprano  was  absent  through  illness. 
She  had  sent  word  at  the  last  moment  that  she  could 
not  sing.  She  had  made  an  understudy  of  one  of  the 
older  girls  in  the  institution ;  and  this  girl,  that  morn- 
ing, took  her  place.  No  one  present  could  be  sorry 
for  the  change.  With  a  marvellous  freshness,  there  was 
that  indefinable  something  in  the  girl's  voice  which 
people  call  sympathy, — or  genius — and  a  sweet,  peculiar 
cadence  making  the  music  like  that  of  an  Amati  violin. 
The  anthem  was  the  same  as  that  sung  by  you  last 
Sunday — As  Pants  the  Hart  for  Cooling  Streams,  I 
had  seen  a  mass  of  people  affected,  but  never  anything 
so  touching  as  this.  Tears  dropped  unwiped  down 
people's  faces."    He  paused. 

"  Go  on,"  she  said.  "  It  is  interesting  and  affecting 
as  you  tell  it.— Well  ? " 

He  looked  astonished  at  her  impassive  manner.  After 
a  moment,  he  continued  : 

''  Imprinted  as  the  scene  would  ever  have  been  on  my 
memory,  an  accident  gave  vividness  to  the  impression. 
On  leaving  the  chapel  I  found  I  b'^d  forgotten  my 
gloves.  I  went  back  for  them.  On  the  stairs  I  met 
the  girls  coming  from  the  choir.  Nearly  the  last  of  them 
was  the  soloist,  returned  again  to  the  ranks  of  a  common 
namelessness.  She  was  noble-looking,  with  a  wonder 
of  yellow  hair.  It  struck  me  very  strangely  that,  in  the 
centre  of  her  forehead,  was  a  small  pink  star,  the  work 
of  nature  or  a  delicate  workman.  It  was  weird,  but  not 
disfiguring.  Uncommon  as  the  girl's  features  were,  this 
heightevied  their  singularity.    She  might  have  been  some 


242 


A   RICOCHET. 


m 


character  out  of  mythology,  some  Iphigenia  in  Aulis — 
a  sweet  sacrifice  for  an  altar  that  should  never  have  been 
raised." 

"  You  are  most  poetical.  Go  on."  How  hard  the 
voice  was ! 

**  Perhaps  I  looked  too  closely  at  her  ;  perhaps  I  dis- 
concerted her,  for  she  stumbled  ;  but  I  caught  her  as  she 
fell.  She  looked  up  at  me  with  eyes  glowing,  partly,  I 
thought,  with  annoyance,  partly  with  gratitude.  She 
merely  said,  *  You  are  kind  : '  and  passed  on.  Strange 
to  say,  I  met  her  fifteen  years  after,  a  brilliant  society 
woman. " 

"  Indeed !  And  still  Iphigenia  in  Aulis  ? — though  I  do 
not  know  the  classics." 

"  Mine  are  weak.  Rather  morje  of  an  Iphigenia  in 
Tauris,  but  the  other  still,  in  looks." 

"  And  what  was  the  difference  between  the  two  Iphi- 
genias  ? " 

"  Iphigenia  was  set  apart  as  a  sacrifice  to  the  gods,  to 
save  her  father's  reputation, — that's  what  it  amounted  to 
— but  the  gods  preserved  her,  caught  her  up,  as  it  were, 
from  the  sword,  and  she  was  sent  as  a  priestess  of  Diana 
at  Tauris.  Her  duty  was  to  sacrifice  strangers  cast  on 
Tauris's  inhospitable  coast." 

"  What  is  the  likeness  between  this  woman  and  Iphi- 
genia in  Tauris  ? " 

"  That  she,  too,  though  not  from  priestly  duty,  is  ready 
to  sacrifice  mariners  who,  wittingly  or  unwittingly,  touch 
the  shores  of  her  influence  and  favour." 

"  How  do  you  know  that  ? "  She  stooped,  caught  up 
a  piece  of  hard  snow,  and  crushed  it  in  her  hand. 

"  From  observation." 


AN  INVASION. 


243 


"  You  think  you  read  the  woman  right  ? "  she  acutely 
asked. 

"  I  think  so."     Yet  his  voice  was  sHghtly  hesitating. 

"  And  you  are  sure  it  was  she  }  " 

"  Quite  sure." 

"  You  saw  the  star  on  her  forehead  again  ?  " 

"  No:  but  1  heard  her  sing. ' 

"  What  did  you  hear  her  sing  ?  "  She  sharpened  the 
knife  for  her  bosom. 

"  As  Pants  the  Hart  for  Cooling  Sir  earns  y'  he  re- 
sponded, slowly. 

"  And  what  came  of  it  all  ?    What  did  you  do  ?  " 

"  What  could  I  do  ?    What  should  I  do  ? " 

"  As  a  gentleman,  nothing,  I  should  think.  Did  you 
let  her  know  that  you  held  her  secret  ? " 

"  Yes,  indirectly." 

"  Why,  even  indirectly  ?  " 

"  First,  to  be  perfectly  sure  ;  and,  again — I  don't  know 
that  I  can  put  the  thing  quite  clearly." 

"  Let  me  try.  And,  again,  because  through  this  Iphi- 
genia  in  Tauris  you  might  suffer — indirectly — that  is, 
through  one  of  your  name.     Is  not  that  so  ? " 

'^  It  may  be  so."     He  felt  himself  a  coward  now. 

"  But,  suppose  you  should  suffer  even  indirectly,  what 
would  you  do  ?    Would  you  tell  her  husband  ?  " 

"  Never  that.  Besides,  her  husband,  perhaps, 
knew." 

"  Which  shows  how  little  you  know  ot  your  own  sex. 
A  man  might  love  a  girl  with  such  a  beginning,  but  he 
would  never  marry  her."  Her  voice  had  a  sharp  bitter- 
ness. 

"  How,  then,  do  you  suppose  she  attained  to  such 


\  A 


,;  ; . 


m 


244 


A  RICOCHET. 


1 '  ^ 

[ 

'.: 

\ 

'                      \ 

position  in  society  at^d  oblivion  of  her  girlhood,  that  she 
married  a  man  of  more  than  ordinary  oirth  and  social 
refinenient  ?  " 

"  Since  we  are  theorizing,  I  suppose  some  childless, 
lonely  man  and  wife,  from  another  country,  adopted  this 
brilliant  girl,  and,  taking  her  to  their  own  land,  hid  her 
past  religiously." 

**  Yes,  that  would  explain  much — perhaps  all." 

There  was  an  instant's  silence,  and  then,  her  eyes 
searching  him,  she  added  : 

"  And  after  yoa  had  made  it  clear  to  her  that  you  had 
puDed  aside  the  curtain  of  her  hateful,  unhappy  child- 
hood, did  the  matter  there  end  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  I  buried  it  in  a  grav^  of  pity  and  forgetful- 
ness,"  he  uently  said.     He  was  ashamed  of  himself. 

As  if  involuntarily,  her  hand  went  to  her  hair,  and, 
pushing  it  bacK,  she  turned  full  towards  him.  In  the 
reflection  of  the  snowy  twilight  he  saw  upon  her  fore- 
head the  star  !  She  had  received  the  knife  ;  and  now 
she  drew  it  forth  and  turned  it  upon  herself  again.  Then 
she  spoke  deliberately  : 

"  You  have  said  how  you  feel  regarding  the  woman 
and  her  secret.  You  feel  as  a  man ;  you  cannot  tell 
how  that  woman  feels.  Whether  she  was  good  or  bad, 
you  could  not  judge  her.  But  I  am  a  woman.  Let  me 
stand  in  her  place  and  speak  for  her.  A  woman  can 
pardon  anything  but  z.  direct  accub<-tion  which  causes 
,her  shamii  and  pain.  Suspicion,  innuendo,  she  can  for- 
get, forgive  ;  but  never  that  the  hidden  thing  in  her  life 
has  been  invaded,  disclosed — and  pitied.'  Good  or 
bad,  2  high-tempered  and  aratitious  woman  haves  pity 
—and  exposure.     You  have  not  done  cavalierly.     Be 


AN  INVASION. 


245 


on  your  guard  lest  some  day  she  resents  your  knowl- 
edge. That  is  what  she  herself  would  tell  you  fearlessly 
in  the  hour  that  you  humiliated  her.  To  such  a  woman 
her  own  destruction  is  as  nothing,  if  piide  and  resent- 
ment seize  her,  as  some  time  it  is  almost  sure  to  do. 
You  were  open  with  the  woman  ;  I,  speaking  for  her,  am 
open  with  you.  She  does  not  fear  you  now.  The  worst 
is  over  with  her.  Be  careful  that  she  does  not  hate  you 
and  do  you  harm.     Let  us  go." 

And — yes,  she  took  his  arm  as  they  turned  round. 
Who  shall  estimate  such  a  woman  ?  Lisgar  King  felt 
that  she  had  triumphed.  She  had  experienced  the  shock, 
and  had  risen  from  it.  That  he  had  spoken  at  all 
gave  her  a  weapon,  and  she  knew  it.  She  knew  his 
innate  pride,  and  sense  of  what  was  fitting  a  man.  He 
had,  really,  a  chivalrous  disposition,  and  would  be  all 
the  more  silent  in  the  future  because,  in  this,  he  had  not 
been  chivalrous. 

They  immediately  began  to  talk  of  Arctic  sunsets,  and 
the  wonders  of  the  northern  lights,  and  were  well  into 
an  airy  discussion  of  it  by  the  time  they  joined  the  other 
members  of  the  party,  who  were  on  their  way  to  the 
Rectory.  This  was  owing  very  little  to  him,  and  much 
to  her  splendid  powers  of  acting.  And  she  carried  him 
along  by  the  naturalness  with  which  she  did  it. 


V. 

The  Ricochet. 


Mrs.  Earle  gave  new  life  to  the  rest  of  the  long  win- 
ter of  the  little  provincial  city  ;  vigour  to  everything  in 


■II 


246 


A   RICOCHET. 


\ 


which  she  interested  herself.  I'lie  snow-shoeing  club 
became  most  active  ;  the  toboganning  received  a  special 
impetus  ;  the  skating  carnival  was  the  most  fashionable 
that  had  occurred  for  years ;  the  amateur  theatricals 
were  actual  .y  worthy  of  consideration ;  the  philhar- 
monic society  received  offers  to  go  to  Ottawa,  Montreal, 
Buffalo,  and  Boston,  to  sing  "  Elijah," — they  did  not  go — 
and  the  choir  became  famous  throughout  the  Dominion. 
Wallack  'as  most  marked  in  his  admiration  ;  but  then 
the  public  generally  put  it  down  to  the  fact  that  he  was 
making  an  ass  of  himself.  Adolph  Latrobe  had  returned 
from  Ottawa,  and  was  the  leading  spirit  in  carrying  out 
all  Mrs.  Earle's  suggestions.  Yet  he  found  occasion  very 
frequently  to  spend  a  cosy  hour  in  Lisgar  King's  library. 
Ostensibly,  his  object  was  to  talk  over  the  development 
of  the  city  and  the  progress  of  the  Land  Boom  ;  but  he 
seemed  delighted .  when  this  serious  talk  merged  into 
music  and  singing.  A  reserve,  however,  on  the  part  of 
Molly  King,  kept  the  association  on  a  friendly,  never 
an  intimate,  basis.  And  Mrs.  Earle  had  time,  apart 
from  the  attentions  of  her  husband,  the  aide-de-camp, 
Kerby  Wallack,  and  others — besides  her  whirl  of  social 
duties — to  preserve  an  accurate  measure  of  this  associa- 
tion and  to  grow  in  secret  antagonism  to  Molly  King. 

And  so  events  ranged  until  spring  came  ;  and  with  it 
a  fuller  expansion  of  the  Land  Boom.  The  streets  of 
Winnipeg  were  crowded  with  men  from  all  parts  of  the 
world.  It  was  a  meeting  ground  for  the  nations.  And 
the  nations  kept  an  eye  on  Kerby  Wallack.  If  he 
stopped  for  a  moment  to  look  at  a  lot  in  a  street,  it  or 
the  adjoining  lots  were  immediately  snapped  up.  Wal- 
lack was  not  a  swindler.     He  was  honest,  as  this  world 


THE  RICOCHET. 


247 


goes.  He  believed  thoroughly  in  the  future  of  this  city, 
and  proved  it  by  investing  all  that  he  had  ;  and  he  stood 
to  lose  all,  if  expectations  failed.  His  various  hints  to 
Haldimand  Earle  were  transmuted  into  money,  and 
this  money,  again,  was  melted  into  eligible  property. 
Throughout  Canada,  people,  less  accurately  informed 
than  Earle,  were  also  investing  in  Winnipeg  property. 
Syndicates  of  college  professors,  sewing  girls,  school 
teachers,  dry-goods  clerks,  artisans,  and  labourers,  joined 
in  the  great  investment.  It  was  like  the  vast  multiplica- 
tion of  sweeps  for  the  Cup  Meeting  of  Australia.  Eveiy 
one,  for  a  time,  seemed  on  the  right  side  of  the  hedge. 
Few  had  come  croppers  ;  or,  if  they  had,  they  soon 
were  agog  again.  Hints  of  a  railway  station  here,  of 
government  offices  there,  of  a  great  hotel  otherwhere, 
sent  capital  whisking  all  over  the  corporation. 

In  all  the  negotiations  Adolph  Latrobe  was  outside 
the  benign  suggestions  of  Kerby  VVallack.  While  he  was 
associated  with  Haldiniand  Earle  he  profited  indirectly 
by  the  great  financier's  knowledge.  There  came  a  time 
when  Latrobe,  without  any  visible  or  prudent  business 
reason,  dissociated  himself  from  Earle.  He  still  con- 
trived, however,  to  make  money,  and  to  prove  bis  faith 
in  the  values  of  city  property  by  promptly  reinvesting. 
Lis£;ar  King  and  his  sister  were  in  no  syndicate,  but  it 
was  well  known  that  they  also  had  made  money,  and  had 
gone  again  into  the  fray. 

And  at  this  point  of  financial  buoyancy  the  city 
stands  one  bright  day  in  the  early  summer.  There  is  a 
cheery  brightness  and  comfort  in  the  drawing-room  at 
"The  Pines."  Kerby  Wallack  is  talking  earnestly  to 
Mrs.  Earle ;  his  lips  conveying  one  kind  of  information. 


:ii 


248 


A   RICOCHET, 


■■  4 


his  fcyes  another.  ''  The  Boom  has  reached  its  climax," 
he  said,  "  and  it  is  only  a  matter  of  days  when  it  goes  to 
pieces.  This  is  unexpected,  even  to  me.  But  I  have 
seen  sufficient  signs  during  the  last  twenty-four  hours 
to  enable  me  to  say  definitely  that  it'll  die  a  sudden 
death ;  that  prices  will  go  down  with  a  bang.  So  I 
thought  I  would  come  and  tell  you,  that  you  might  warn 
Earle  to  unload  at  once.  I  couldn't  find  him  at  his 
office ;  they  said  he  had  gone  out  of  town,  but  they  didn't 
know  where,  so  I  came  on  here.  Naturally,  I  was  glad 
to  come." 

Wallack's  face  was  suffused  with  blushes  as  he  made 
the  last  speech.  He  was  not  an  adept  at  this  sort  of 
thing.     Mrs.  Earle 's  brain  was  working  fast. 

"  Could  Mr.  Earle," — she  always  spoke  of  him  as  "  my 
husband "  to  every  one  except  Kerby  Wallack  and 
Adolph  Latrobe — "could  Mr..  Earle  'unload,*  as  you 
call  it,  to-morrow  ?  " 

"  Easily,  I  think.  He  does  not  hold  enough  to  excite 
suspicion." 

"  Then  the  end  might  be  precipitated,  when  ? " 

*'The  next  day,  if  I  took  action  also  to-morrow  to 
save  myself  so  far  as  I  can." 

"  Take  action,  then."  Her  voice  was  firm  ;  her  man- 
ner, however,  languid. 

"  Why  do  you  wish  it  ? " 

"  It  is  my  fancy.  Since  we  must  be  in  it,  I  want  to 
know  that  I  have  had  a  part  in  the  play." 

"  It  will  bring  great  suffering.  Fortunes  will  be  lost. 
As  soon  as  I  begin  to  subtract  heavily  from  my  invest- 
ments there'll  be  a  panic." 

"  Yes,  that's  the  sad  part  of  it." 


THE  RICOCHET, 


249 


•t 


man- 

int  to 

lost, 
ivest- 


''What  a  splendid  financier  you  would  make,  Mrs. 
Earle !  You  take  things  which  must  be,  on  the  ground 
that  they  must  be,  and  no  weak  sentiment ! — A  woman 
that  would  make  the  fortune  and  happiness  of  any 
man ! " 

He  rose  nervously,  as  if  to  come  to  where  she  was ; 
but  she  rose  also,  and  began  pouring  a  cup  of  tea. 

''Mr.  Earle  will  not  be  back  to-morrow,"  she  said, 
but  she  said  it  coolly ;  "  not  for  a  week  !  " 

"  Not  back  for  a  week  !  Great  heavens,  that  ruins 
you ! " 

''  No ;  "  and  siic  handed  him  his  tea.  "  I  have  a  power 
of  attorney  to  dispose  of  his  property.  He  thought  it 
best  to  give  me  that,  weeks  ago,  in  anticipation  of  any 
sudden  fall  or  rise  in  values,  that  I  might  take  action  if 
he  were  away." 

"  Earle  carries  his  head  about  with  him,  doesn't  he  ?  " 

She  looked  quickly  up  at  him,  and  said,  in  a  vague  kind 
of  way  :  "  Not  always."  A  slight  pause,  and  then  i?he 
added :  "  The  boom  will  break,  then,  the  d?v  after  to- 
morrow." 

He  looked  at  her  curiously.  Her  eyes  were  bent  on 
her  cup.  There  was  something  almost  uncanny  acting 
upon  his  admiration  of  her.  But  he  replied :  "  Yes,  the 
day  after  to-morrow,  if  you  say  so." 

"  I  say  so.  Has  no  one  else  any  suspicion  of  the 
nearness  of  the  end  ?  " 

"No  one.  You  are  my  only  confidant,  my  only 
friend,  my  only — "  He  was  moving  toward  her  when 
the  door  opened,  and  the  Reverend  Anthony  Devon  was 
announced.  The  rector  became  slightly  embarrassed, 
because  he  saw  that  Wallack   was  confused.     He  felt 


'4, 


Ml 

I 
'  III  'I 


250 


A  RICOCHET, 


\i 


\k 


ashamed  of  himself  that  this  was  so.  He  knew  how 
poor  a  compliment  it  was  to  Mrs.  Earle  ;  and  he  believed 
in  her.  But  Mrs.  Earle  was  perfectly  at  her  ease.  She 
poured  a  cup  of  tea,  chatting  brightly,  and  The  Reverend 
Anthony  said  he  had  come  to  see  if  she  would  sing  at  a 
charity  concert,  to  be  held  the  following  Monday  week. 
"  Not  that  we  are  ir  much  need  of  charity  in  Winnipeg 
this  year,"  he  said  ;  "  but  there  are  some  poor  people 
who  want  to  go  West  to  take  up  land,  and  we  cannot 
send  them  off  on  the  prairies  penniless.  If  you  will 
consent  to  sing  we  may  feel  sure  of  success." 

Mrs.  Earle  modestly  consented.  In  all  that  touched 
her  art  she  was  worthy  of  admiration  :  a  woman  with  an 
atmosphere,  warn",  cheerful,  attractive.  And  from  this 
atmosphere  Kerby  Wallajk  now  betook  himself,  saying 
to  Mrs.  Earle,  as  he  went ;  "  I  suppose,  in  Mr.  Earle's 
absence,  you  will  attend  to  that  matter  at  once  ?" 

"  At  once,"  she  replied. 

After  The  Reverend  Anthony  left,  her  first  thought 
was  to  warn  Adolph  Latrobc.  She  picked  up  an  even- 
ing paper,  and  saw  by  it  that  he  had  sold  out  that  day 
eighty  thousand  dollars'  worth  of  property.  That,  she 
guessed,  covered  the  value  of  the  lands  ne  held. 

"  He  is  safe,"  she  said  ;  "  and  Lhe  other  two  still  hold 
theirs.  My  time  has  come.  I  will  ruin  them  both.  She 
shall  feel  my  hate,  if  she  does  not  know  it." 

It  was  a  stem-faced  woman  that  said  this,  with  her 
soft  color  gone,  and  in  her  eyes  a  flashing  something. 

That  evening  and  the  next  morning,  through  Haldi- 
mand  Earle's  solicitor,  she  was  able  to  dispose  of  nearly 
all  the  city  property  he  held.  And  it  was  with  an  un- 
pleasant exultation  she  found  that  ten  thousand  dollars' 


THE  RICOCHET. 


251 


worth  had  been  purchased  in  the  name  of  the  Two.  She 
felt  sure  that  Latrobe  had,  somehow,  received  a  warning. 
She  could  now  think  calmly  over  the  consequences  of 
t^c  crash.  How  the  world  would  take  it  and  feel  it, 
she  was  not  considering.  Her  world  at  present  held 
only  five  people  ;  and  three  of  them  were  safe,  ard  the 
Two — she  laughed  :  a  bitter  laugh.  The  Two  had  in- 
vested heavily  lately  ;  and  they  had  held.  And,  for  the 
holding,  they  stood  now  confronted  by  the  gargoyle, 
Ruin.  It  was  to  make  ruin  certain  that  she  had  pre- 
cipitated the  crash.  Occasionally,  and  this  was  one  of 
the  occasions,  the  thought  of  what  Lisgar  King  knew 
came  to  her  in  a  quick  shiver  of  disgust.  And  she 
always  rose  from  her  hateful  humiliation  indignant, 
revengeful — Medea-like.  For  the  other  feeling  that 
spent  itself  on  Molly  King,  look  at  the  poignant  anguish 
and  distress  it  has  caused  from  the  days  of  Vashti  or 
Leontes  to  this  hour  of  grace. 

The  To-morrow  passed.  The  evening  papers  con- 
tained accounts  of  several  transfers,  but  none  in  which 
Latrobe's  or  the  Kings'  names  were  mentioned.  Thus, 
she  concluded,  her  plans  had  worked  admirably.  The 
secret  of  the  disaster  was  between  her  and  Kerby  Wal- 
lack.  Strange  association,  this  woman  of  rare  artistic 
power  and  sensitive  temperament  and  the  financier  of 
robustness  and  heated  muscular  strength  !  Was  it  admi- 
ration, or  regard,  that  permitted  this  man  to  show  his 
preference  for  her — she  whom  nature  had  so  deftly  and 
graciously  made  ?     And  Adolph  Latrobe 

She  sat  long  into  the  night,  the  soft  pink  of  the  candle- 
shades  glorifying  her  golden  hair  and  fleecy  dress,  and 
the  mirrors  throwing  back  upon  her  gently  her  own  image 


■  I 


«  IH., 


I    J 
'  Ml 


252 


A  RICOCHET, 


and  changing  expressions.  And  she  looked  upon  her- 
self, and  tried  to  understand  what  manner  of  woman  she 
was.  She  knew  that,  in  the  far-away  chapel  across  the 
seas,  among  the  twice  a  hundred  of  white-aproned  girls, 
she  had  thrilled  to  the  finger-tips  to  hear  the  sublime 
chords  of  Handel  or  Beethoven  ;  that,  in  the  tales  read 
from  the  lofty  desk,  in  the  dim  old  aisle,  she  had 
caught  at  the  robes  of  some  serene  life,  to  which  the 
daily  system  of  her  bringing-up  had  no  immediate 
^  stepping-stone — neither  by  love  of  father  or  mother,  or 
brother  or  sister,  or  any  other.  She  called  to  mind  how, 
in  listening  to  some  singer  in  the  choir,  her  eyes  had 
overflowed.  She  remembered  how,  as  she  moved  about  the 
great  dormitories  of  that  prison, — for  prison  such  a  place 
must  be  to  all  who  never  knelt  at  a  mother's  knee — and 
wondered  at  the  feeling  of  strangeness  that  surrounded 
her,  patches  of  the  collects  she  had  learnt  by  heart 
from  Sunday  to  Sunday  went  floating  through  her 
mind,  and  impelling  her  to  something  that  seemed  ever 
inviting,  ever  eluding  her.  And  when  she  knelt  to  pray, 
of  all  the  prayers  she  had  been  taught  one  always 
came  between,  as  though  it  were  sufficient  for  her  day 
and  for  her  night :  "  Lighten  our  darkness^  we  beseech 
Theey  O  Lord!  "  And  so  it  had  ever  been  until  now  : 
some  self  within  herself  making  her  a  being  to  be 
loved  in  her  little  universe — and  yet  from  the  circle  of 
her  grace  and  genius  this  tangent !  And  it  represented  a 
force  of  hatred,  of  cruelty,  of  almost  sardonic  condem- 
nation of  herself,  and  of  disobedience  to  a  vow  which 
commanded  her  to  stand  in  erect  clearness  of  con- 
science, not  only  far  from  her  principle  of  "  Near  ;  yet 
not  too  near,"  but  from  the  fatal  "  Near."     And  m  her 


THE  RICOCHET. 


253 


loneliness,  this  night,  thinking  of  her  past,  she  might 
easily  have  held  her  hand  from  disaster,  but,  in  a 
chafing  motion  of  that  hand,  she  threw  back  her  hair 
and  saw  the  star.  Then  she  waked  again  to  a  swift,  im- 
pulsive revolt  against  the  unknown  ones  who  gave  her 
birth,  and  against  the.  woman  who  had  broken  in  upon 
her  sweet  but  hopeless  dream. 

Other  women,  erring,  like  her,  have  had  just  such 
hours ;  and  some  have  risen  from  them,  sadder  but 
stronger,  and  some  have  reached  out  passionate,  reck- 
less hands,  and — "  Hush,  draw  the  curtain  !     So  !  " 

The  papers  next  morning  contained  no  record  of  the 
crash.  This,  to  Mrs.  Earle,  was  strange.  About  ten 
o'clock  she  saw  Adolph  Latrobe  approaching  "The 
Pines."  She  supposed  he  was  bringing  her  the  news 
she  already  held.  Now  she  needed  all  her  power  of 
repression  ;  for  she  felt  she  could  tell  at  once  how  far 
the  ruin  of  the  Kings  affected  him.  Yet  she  was  not 
flushed,  but  cold  rather  as  he  entered  the  room.  But 
his  manner  was  simple  and  cheery,  and  touched  with 
no  sign  of  disturbance.  He  called,  he  said,  to  ask  her, 
on  behalf  of  the  general  committee,  if  she  would  join 
a  sub-committee  of  ladies  for  the  reception  of  the 
Governor-General  and  Lady  Agnew,  who  were  expected 
in  a  month.     In  a  few  words  this  was  arranged. 

They  stood  at  the  window  looking  out  upon  the  prairie, 
over  which  her  secret  had  gone,  with  Lisgar  King's  dis- 
closure, to  the  tomb  of  that  winter  sunset.  Now  the 
prairie  was  spread  with  green  and  overspread  again  with 
myriad  colors.  Verdant,  eloquent  of  growth,  glowing 
beneath  a  cloudless  sky,  stretched  this  glad  savannah 
endlessly  away.     Upon  its  bosom  here  and  there  was  a 


'ill 


254 


A    RICOCHET. 


i  ii 


i 


happy  farmer's  home,  a  rhistcr  of  cattle,  or  an  Indian 
camp  ;  and  now  appeared  a  company  of  mounted  police 
galloping  westward,  a  spot  of  palpitating  scarlet  against 
the  green  and  gold  ;  and,  again,  fading  into  the  horizon- 
line,  a  cavalcade  of  settlers  marching  to  new  homes 
— a  crusade  of  industry  and  hope.  Prosperity  and 
visible  expectation  hung  its  canopy  over  a  new  northern 
world ;  or  so  it  seemed  to  Adolph  Latrobc,  as  he 
looked. 

After  a  slight  pause,  she  said  :  "  You  have  forsaken 
us  almost  of  late." 

"  Not  that — I  have  been  much  occupied  ;  besides  " — 
his  lips  were  tightly  pressed,  as  though  obstructing  a 
word  not  easy  and  not  i)leasant  to  say. 

"  Well  !  Besides  ? "  She  spoke  somewhat  breath- 
lessly. 

"  Earle  is  away  much,"  he  hesitatingly  yet  bravely  said. 

**  Oh,  you  are  becoming  sensitive  !  "  There  was  scorn 
in  the  tone. 

"  Not  more  than  I  should."     He  flushed. 

" '  Should  !  should  ! '  How  long  has  '  should  '  been 
so  vital  a  creed  with  you  ? " 

"  Chiefly  since  I  fell  under  the  spell  of  a  woman  who 
sings  divinely." 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?  ** 

"  I  mean  the  woman  who  sang,  for  instance,  j4s 
Pants  the  Hart  for  Cooling  Streams" 

"  I  do  not  see,  quite." 

**  The  noblest  in  the  woman  defeats  the  ignoble  in  me." 
,  "The  woman  defeats  herself,  you  mean."  She  shud- 
dered slightly,  as  if  cold.  **  And  yet  you  had  heard  her 
sing  in  Quebec." 


THE  RICOCHET, 


255 


id- 
ler 


"  Only  once,  and  then  It  was  music  of  a  different 
kind." 

'*  But  it  was  the  same  woman."  The  softness  was 
going  out  of  her  voice.  A  dark  thought — the  thought 
of  Molly  King — had  crossed  the  disk  of  her  emotions. 
She  wished,  in  this  swift  moment  of  anger,  that  he  too 
was  to  he  involved  in  the  expected  ruin.  But  the  anger 
was  short-lived. 

"  I  was  going  to  send  for  you  yesterday,"  she  said. 

"  Send  for  me  ?  Yes  ?  I  hope,  for  something  in  which 
I  might  serve  you," 

"  No ;  for  something  in  which  I  might  serve  you." 

"  I  am  too  much  your  debtor  ;  but  in  what  would  you 
have  served  me  this  time  ?  " 

*'  I  wanted  to  tell  you  that  the  Boom  would  die  an 
untimely  death,  and  that  you  had  better  sell  out  at  once. 
But  I  saw  you  had  sold  out,  and  I  did  not  do  so  then  ; 
the  more  so  that  I  was  bound  to  secrecv." 

# 

He  turned  pale.  '*  The  Boom  break  !  The  Boom 
break  !  "  he  said. 

He  staggered  back,  steadying  himself  against  the  table. 

"  Is— is  this  true  ?" 

'*  Quite  !  "  It  flashed  through  her  mind  that  he  might 
be  thinking  of  Molly  King— and  she  said  it  coldly. 

He  poured  out  a  glass  of  water  with  an  unsteady  hand. 

*•  My  God  !  "  he  said.     He  looked  shaken. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  Oh  !  tell  me !  "  She  was  really 
anxious  now. 

"  There  was  much  transfer  and  purchase  last  night. 
The  Kings  sold  out  to  a  syndicate,  and  I  bought  their 
lots  again  of  the  syndicate  at  seventy-five  thousand  dol- 
lars." 


% 


256 


A   RICOCHET. 


t;. 


"  You — bought — the  Kings'  lots — last  night — you  !  " 
She  laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm.  Her  face  was  painful 
to  see. 

He  put  the  fingers  from  his^'arm, — not  ungently — took 
his  hat  from  the  table,  and  turned  toward  her  a  set, 
reproachful  face. 

"  You  might  have  saved  me,"  he  said.  "  I  am  ruined 
— ruined  !  " 

There  came  a  tap  at  the  door.  She  went  to  it  and 
took  a  note  from  the  servant.  She  read  it  hastily,  and 
sank  to  the  floor  white  and  trembling.  The  paper  flut- 
tered to  her  feet.  She  pointed  to  it  with  terror  in  her 
eyes.     He  took  it  up  and  read  it. 

It  ran  thus  :  "  As  you  commanded,  the  word  was  given 
and  the  crash  has  come.  The  city  is  paralyzed,  but,  m 
the  general  smash-up,  we,  at  least,  are  safe.  Congratu'a- 
tions  !  Will  call  to-night."  And  it  was  signed,  "  Kerby 
Wallack." 

He  looked  down  upon  her  with  scorn.  He  read 
more  than  there  was  in  the  note.  That  was  one  penalty 
she  paid.  "  You  have  done  this  ;  you  and  he  have  done 
this  !     God  !  how  I  hate  you  !  " 

He  opened  the  door  and  passed  out. 

She  called  after  him  :  **  Oh,  hear  me  ;  indeed,  Adolph, 
hear  me !  " 

But  he  was  gone. 

She  rose  to  her  feet,  but  with  a  bitter  moaning  cry 
fell  forward  senseless. 

And  so  she  was  found. 


I 


A  FLIGHT, 


257 


cry 


VI. 

A  Flight. 

A  CITY  had  been  taken  captive  by  misfortune  ;  a 
country  had  been  startled  ;  hundreds  had  lost  their  all, 
and  thousands  something.  Kerby  Wallack  had  lost 
much,  but  he  had  saved  much  too.  He  was  still  rich. 
The  Kings  had  lost  nothing.  Adolph  Latrobe  was 
ruined.  Men  stood  pale  and  apathetic  at  the  corners  of 
the  streets,  or  sat  bewildered  and  stricken  in  their  offices. 
Some  cursed — with  no  bated  breath — Kerby  Wallack, 
whose  plunging  had  led  so  many  into  the  vortex  ;  and 
there  were  a  few  circles  in  which  it  was  considered  some- 
thing more  than  curioi^s  that  he  had  got  rid  of  so  much 
land  the  day  before  the  crash.  But  the  real  springs  of 
the  disaster  even  Kerby  Wallack  could  not  have  reached, 
or,  if  reaching,  destroy.  He  was  only  the  vehicle  whose 
action  could  precipitate  the  evil,  one  day  or  another,  in  a 
mere  handful  of  days.  So  far  as  the  public  were  con- 
cerned, there  was  no  satisfying  evidence  that  he  knew  of 
the  proximity  of  the  disaster.  His  getting  rid  of  much 
land  the  day  before  the  shock  came  was  not  proof,  for 
he  had  made  as  great  sales  many  times ;  only,  at  other 
times  he  had  purchased  again. 

None  had  heart  to  congratulate  those  who  had  escaped. 
It  was  with  a  sharp  pan,-?  of  pain  that  Molly  King  learned 
of  Latrobe's  ruin,  and  the  pang  was  greater  because  the 
price  of  the  purchase  that  ruined  him  lay  to  her  credit, 
and  that  of  her  brother,  in  the  bank.  The  land  they 
had  sold  for  seventy-five  thousand  dollars  would  not 
bring  more  than  ten  thousand,  so  complete  had  been 
»7 


!|! 


i! 


258 


A   RICOCHET. 


»' 

1.  > 

1 

ii 

IJ 

< 

1 

f! 

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.■■4 

'1' 

%  ~- 

C-jL^- 

%■■- 

1.  . 

K 

11 

H 

m 

the  fall  in  values.  The  pang  became  an  abiding  regret 
when  Lisgar  came  to  her  and  told  her  that  Latrobe 
had  left  the  city,  and  had  joined  a  troop  of  the  Mc  ted 
Police  to  go  to  the  Stony  Plains.  Adolph  Latrc  )  ^o 
endure  the  hardships,  lonelii.esi,  and  danger  :  f  a 
mounted  trooper !  He  bade  good-by  to  no  oni.  save 
Lisgar  King,  who  pleaded  with  him,  berj;ped  of  1  um,  to 
stay  •  oi'ered  to  lend  him,  give  him,  fite  thousand  or  ten 
ih  '  4*ina  dollars  to  start  him  again.  But  Adolph  Latrobe 
•:-nlv  si  swered  quietly  :  "  No  ;  not  even  indirectly  have  I 
been  rua  \  through  ^^«,  old  friend.  Let  us  say  no  more 
'^bout  this,  but  thank  you,  as  you  know  I  do,  for  your 
kind  offer,  King.  I  will  ask  something  of  you.  Take 
care  of  my  books  and  knick-knacks,  will  you  ?  I've  left 
word  at  the  hotel  that  you  are  to  have  them.  Then  I 
wish  you'd  take  my  boat  as  a  gift.  Here  is  the  key  of 
the  boat-bouse  that  belongs  to  Earle  and  myself.  And 
now,  good-by  !  Give  my  adieus  to  your  sister  for  me, 
will  you  ? " 

"  And  you  won't  come  up  ?  " 

"  I  leave  for  the  West  in  an  hour.     I  cannot." 

And  when  the  books  came,  Molly  found  two  sheets  of 
music  among  them.  One  was  a  song  of  Spohr's,  called, 
As  Pants  the  Hart  for  Cooling  Streams. 

Upon  the  inner  page  of  it  were  inscribed,  with  an  eras- 
ure here  and  there,  and  words  written  in,  showing  them 
to  be  original,  these  verses  : 

Though  the  birds  sing  in  the  meadows,  and  fill  all  the  air  with 
sweetness, 

They  sing  only  in  the  present,  and  they  sing  because  they  must; 
They  are  wanton  in  their  pureness,  and,  in  all  their  fine  completeness, 

They  trill  out  their  lives  forgotten  to  the  silence  of  the  dust. 


A   FLIGHT, 


259 


;ras- 
Ihem 


with 
lust; 


But  if  you  should  pass  to-morrow,  where  your  songs  could  never 
reach  us, 
There  would  still  be  throbbing  through  us  all  the  mi     ::  of  yowT 
voice  ; 
KtiC  'Our  spirit  would  speak  through  the  chords,  as  thcuj^h  it  would 
beseech  us, 
To  remember  that  the  noblest  ends  hu/e  ever  .loblest  choice. 

But  upon  another  song  of  Lassen's,  called,  Thine  Eyes 
so  Blue  and  Tender^  was  written,  with  the  date  : 

"  And  I  have  made  my  choice." 

Had  Molly  King  hearc  iin  conversation  of  the  two 
who  looked  out  from  a  vin  v  at  "The  Pines,"  one 
memorable  morning,  s' '  v. -"aid  have  understood  more 
fully  the  meaning  of  thes  liies.  But  she  understood 
enough  ;  and  she  blush  V  P'^d  wept  as  she  blushed.  For 
he  was  on  his  way  to  the  Stony  Plains. 

Mrs.  Earle  did  not  sing,  as  usual,  in  St.  Stephen's 
on  the  Sunday  following  the  crash.  It  had  been 
announced  to  the  choir  that  she  was  ill.  Lisgar  King 
spent  part  of  the  evening  at  Fort  Rouge ;  and  then, 
having  the  key  of  the  boat-house  that  belonged  to 
Adolph  Latrobe  and  Haldimand  Earle,  he  determined 
to  go  down  and  take  the  boat  the  former  had  given  him 
to  his  own  quarters.  The  night  was  not  bright,  but 
objects  out  of  the  shadow  could  be  distinguished.  He 
entered  the  shed,  lit  a  match  to  see  which  was  the  right 
boat,  and,  finding  it,  drew  it  out  on  the  jetty  and  slid  it 
into  the  water.  Then  he  locked  the  front  door  of  the 
shed,  and  sat  down  in  a  corner  of  the  veranda  to  fill 
and  light  his  pipe.  He  heard,  as  he  sat  there,  the  door 
of  the  boat-house  unlock  and  close  again.  Then  foot- 
steps approached.     He  drew  farther  back  in  the  shadow. 


26o 


A   RICOCHET. 


\l 


k^  .^ 


A  figure  appeared  upon  the  veranda.  It  was  Mrs. 
Earle.  She  paused  for  a  moment,  but  did  not  look 
round.  Then  she  walked  out  upon  the  jetty.  She  took 
ofT  her  hat  and  the  cloak  that  was  about  her  shoulders, 
and  dropped  them  beside  her. 

Then  King  understood. 

The  despairing  attitude  of  the  woman  told  the  story. 
She  raised  her  hands  and,  with  a  passionate  action, 
brushed  the  hair  back  from  her  brows.  Then  she  turned 
her  face  to  the  unresponsive  sky,  and  said  :  "  It  all  ends 
here — the  shame,  the  wrong,  the  misery." 

With  a  few  swift  steps  King  was  beside  her. 

**  No,  no,"  he  said,  and  he  laid  his  hand  upon  her  arm. 

With  ^.  shudder  she  turned  slowly  to  him ;  but  she  did 
not  speak  or  cry. 

"  You  are  looking  for  a  missing  boat,"  he  said ;  "  I 
am  the  culprit.  Here  it  is.  Shall  I  row  you  across  ? 
Is  that  what  you  wish  ? " 

Again  she  shuddered,  and  then  faintly  said  :  "  Thank 
you,  but  you  need  not  trouble." 

It  became  plain  to  her  how  he  was  sparing  her  in 
this  thing  ;  how  he  was  making  her  intended  action 
to  appear  other  than  it  was.  He  handed  her  the  hat 
and  wrapped  the  cloak  round  her  shoulders.  And  now 
she  trembled  for  a  moment  violently ;  then  she  made 
that  gesture  of  putting  something  away  from  her,  which 
we  have  seen  before. 

"  Let  me  row  you  to  the  second  landing ;  that  will  be 
nearest  to  *The  Pines,'"  he  said.  Mechanically  she 
permitted  him  to  assist  her  into  the  boat.  Then,  as  he 
rowed,  he  talked  quietly  and  good-humoredly  about 
several  things,  especially  on  the  early   history   of   the 


A   FLIGHT. 


261 


Red  River,  not  pausing  in  his  quick  gossip  or  his  easy 
swing  of  the  oars  until  they  reached  the  second  land- 
ing. He  drew  the  boat  up,  helped  her  out,  and  offered 
her  his  arm  as  he  said  :  '*  I  will  take  you  home,  if  you 
will  let  me." 

Then  she  spoke  in  slow,  strained  tones :  "  Let  us  be 
plain  this  time.  You  need  not  fear.  I  will  go  home  at 
once.  You  have  spared  me,  and  I  can  never  forget 
that.  You  have  saved  me  from  myself,  and  some  day  I 
may  be  gi  teful  for  that  also.  I  shall  try  to  think  that  it 
was  best  you  stopped  me  then.  I  know  your  lips  are 
sealed.  More  than  you  know  you  have  heaped  coals  of 
fire  on  my  head.  Out  of  my  future  may  come  my 
thanks  to  you.  I  once  said  I  might  hate  you  and  that 
you  had  cause  to  fear  me.  Perhaps  I  spoke  truly ;  but 
that  now  is  all  past.  And  hate  and  everything  else,  I 
think,  is  dead  in  me.     Good-night." 

She  passed  up  the  bank  into  the  shadow,  and  was 
gone. 

"  Poor  woman  !  "  he  said.  And  that  was  the  second 
time  he  had  said  it. 

But  he  only  partly  understood. 

In  his  library,  an  hour  after,  Molly  said  to  him : 
"  You  look  as  serious  as  if  you  had  been  reading  Job, 
Gar." 

"  So  I  have.     Listen  !  " 

^^^  He  that  ts  ready  to  slip  with  his  feet ^  is  as  a  lamp 
despised  in  the  thought  of  him  that  is  at  ease* 

"  That  is  one.     Here  is  another : 

"  '^For  there  is  hope  of  a  tree^  if  it  be  cut  down^  thai  it 
will  sprout  again,  and.  that  the  tender  branch  thereof  will 
not  cease*  " 


262 


A   RICOCHET. 


Molly  grew  serious  at  once,  and  slid  her  hand  into 
his. 

"  I  never  heard  you  quote  Scripture  before,  Gar.'* 

"  Didn't  think  I  knew  any,  did  you  ?  They're  a 
couple  of  Sunday-school  bits  that  came  to  my  mind. 
You  know  the  amount  we  used  to  learn." 

"  Say  them  again."     He  repeated  them. 

"  Do  you  think  he  will  ever  come  back,  Gar  ?  " 

"  He — you  mean — oh,  quite  so.  Yes,  some  day.  But 
it  hit  him  hard." 

"  Gar,  did  you  think  it  strange  that  Mrs.  Earle  should 
sell  out  on  the  same  day  Kerby  Wallack  did  ? " 

He  blew  a  long,  quiet  breath  through  his  lips.  A  light 
began  to  dawn  upon  him.  He  saw  further  now  than  the 
girl  beside  him,  but  she  had  taught  him  the  way — she, 
who  had  one-tenth  of  his  knowledge  of  all  concerned, 
had  reached  a  point  of  divination  untouched  by  him. 
But  then  Molly  had  a  different  set  of  instincts  working. 

**  I  see  your  drift,  Molly,  girl,  but  let  us  say  no  more 
about  it." 

He  was  certain  that  in  the  future  Kerby  Wallack 
would  be  as  far  out  of  the  parallels  of  Mrs.  Earle's 
influence  as  was  Adolph  Latrobe  now. 


VII. 

The  Adjustment. 

It  was  a  September  evening.  The  ticsh  air  from  the 
prairie  crept  in,  and  the  palpitating  sweetness  of  the 
organ  stole  out  upon  the  calm  of  the  Sabbath.  St. 
Stephen's  was  filled,  for  a  whisper  had  gone  abroad  that 


THE      DJUSTMENT, 


263 


one  who  had  not  sung  for  a  long  time,  and  who  had  been 
snatched  from  the  grave  of  fever,  was  to  sing  again  this 
night  on  her  reappearance  into  the  world  of  life  and 
action.  They  did  not  know  that  she  had  been  twice 
caught  back  from  the  place  where  the  streets  are  empty 
and  the  houses  still. 

Many  faces  were  turned  toward  the  choir,  but  she 
whom  they  sought  sat  in  the  shadow.  A  srlemn  thrill 
ran  through  the  congregation  as  The  Reverend  Anthony 
read  the  general  thanksgiving. 

"  We^  Thine  unworthy  servants^  do  give  Thee  most 
humble  and  hearty  thanks  for  all  Thy  goodness  and  loving- 
kindtiess  to  us^  and  to  all  men."     Then  he  paused. 

"  Particularly  to  her  who  desires  now  to  offer  up  her 
prayers  and  thanksgivings  for  Thy  late  mercies  vouchsafed 
to  herr 

Some  one  behind  Lisgar  King  sighed. 

A  moment  more,  and  the  anthem  was  given  out.  It 
was  one  of  Mendelssohn's  :  Oh^  that  I  had  the  wings  of  a 
dove  !  I  would  fly  away  to  the  wilderness  and  build  me  a 
nest^  and  be  at  rest. 

The  voice  was  clear,  yet  low,  as  if  it  dared  not  trust 
itself  just  yet.  Then  it  rose  fuller,  higher,  charged  with 
a  subtle  and  thrilling  resonance,  strong  with  the  com- 
posure of  a  disciplined  artistic  sense,  ripe  with  the  feel- 
ing of  a  deep-hearted  woman.  The  notes  aspired, 
soared,  poised,  met  all  straying,  unresponsive  fancies, 
conquered,  swelled  in  benediction,  and  died  away. 

Again  some  one  behind  Lisgar  and  Molly  sighed 
deeply.  It  was  Kerby  Wallack.  That  which  was 
noblest  in  her  had  conquered  him  also. 

Mrs.  Earle  went  out  into  i^ociety  again,  but  v,  ith  a  dif- 


'"^ 


264 


A  RICOCHET, 


I  if 


ference.  The  aide-de-camp  said  of  her  :  "  Lost  her  snap 
and  go.  Doesn't  seem  to  care  a  straw  whether  she 
dances  with  me  or  the  little  figure-totter  of  the  H.  B.  C." 
— (H.  B.  C.  meaning  Hudson's  Bay  Company).  And 
this  was  apparently  true.  Something  latent  in  her 
character  had  developed  ;  something  heretofore  active 
was  suppressed.  She  who  had  been  admired  and  liked 
by  some  women  before,  was  loved  by  many  now  :  so 
gentle  was  she,  yet  so  strong  and  thoughtful ;  so  full  of 
tact  and  judgment ;  so  admirable  a  host,  so  considerate 
and  unselfish  a  friend.  And  when,  another  summer, 
there  came  a  little  stranger  to  make  the  family  at  '*  The 
Pines'  three,  Haldimand  Earle  swore  a  big  oath,  that 
he  was  the  happiest  man  in  the  universe. 

Here  this  story  ended  when  it  was  written  three  years 
ago.  There  was  nothing  more,  then,  to  tell.  Fortunately 
for  its  completeness,  it  was  not  published.  But  a  letter 
from  the  aide-de-camp,  of  October,  1890,  contains  the 
announcement — but  let  the  letter  tell  the  story  to  the  end ; 
that  is,  such  of  it  as  is  here  published.  There  is  some  of 
it  concerning  late  hours,  Corby-and-splits,  "  No  good  " 
mining  on  the  Souris,  hunting  and  shooting  in  the  Duck 
Hills,  and  entertaining  travelling  theatrical  troupes, 
which  need  not  be  shown  : 

Winnipeg,  October  12M,  1890. 

jDear  Old  Comrade  :  It  is  Sunday  night.  You  know  the  old 
saying,  "  The  better  the  day  the  better  the  deed  : " — so  you  are 
going  to  get  a  long  one.  Have  had  a  regular  rush  this  week  ;  all 
sorts  of  functions  and  no  end  of  feeds — and  pretty  ragged,  too,  some 
of  the  feeds  were.  .  .  .  Here  is  the  biggest  thing  among  the 
headachy  memories  of  the  week  :  Molly  King  met  Adolph  Latrobe 
at  the  altar  of  Saint  Stephen's  last  Wednesday  and  took  him  for 
better  or  for  worse— and  from  wh|t  I  know  of  them  both  I  think  it's 


''^:' 


THE  ADJUSTMENT, 


265 


for  better.  His  Ex.  went,  and  Major  Hope  of  the  N.  W.  M.  P. 
helped  Latrobe  through  beautifully.  Latrobe  fell  on  his  feet  off  in 
the  Fort  Macleod  country.  He  has  a  big  chunk  in  a  coal  mine,  an 
interest  in  a  branch  railroad  from  the  C.  P.  R.,  and  banks  fifty 
thousand  with  his  frau.  Happy  Latrobe  !  He  has  offered  me  a 
berth  on  the  railroad.  Think  I'll  go.  .  .  .  Forgot  to  say  that 
Mrs.  Haldimand  Earle  was  at  the  wedding.  You  remember  she 
used  rather  to  "  prefer"  Latrobe.  As  old  Dizzy  said  once,  when  he 
met  a  woman  to  whom  he'd  been  an  attachi  years  before  :  "  This 
is  as  good  as  a  play."  Well,  by  Jove,  it  was!  Mrs.  Earle  smiled 
sweetly  through  the  whole  business.  Ellen  of  the  Lyceum  wouldn't 
be  in  it  with  her  acting.  She's  got  all  her  old  looks  back,  and 
something  more — rather  spirituelle  (is  that  right  ?  I  never  feel  safe 
with  you  literary  fellows).  As  for  her  brains,  they  are  all  they  ever 
were,  and  that  doesn't  need  explanation.  But  she's  painfully  "  true 
to  Poll."  Earle  looks  disgustingly  happy  all  the  time.  .  .  . 
Wallack  ought  to  have  come  in  somewhere  above  in  the  Earle- 
King-Latrobe  affair.  He  married  a  fine  girl  from  across  the  Line 
six  months  ago  ;  but  perhaps  you  know  that.  .  .  .  Would  I 
were  with  thee  for  just  an  hour  in  Piccadilly  !  The  thought  of  it 
necessitates  a  salutation.  So,  here's  a  deep  draught  to  the  reforma> 
tion  of  the  world  !  Youts,  as  of  old  and  always, 

Ed.  Regard. 


FINIS. 


old 
are 
;  all 
I  some 
jgthe 
Itrobc 
for 
ik  it's 


'} 


\ 

Hiss  Nobody 

of  Nowhere 

Now  In  Its  100,000. 
ARCHIBALD  CLAYERING  GUNTER 

Mr.  Gunter's  accurate  knowledge  of  what  he  so  Intensely 
narrates  has  never  been  brought  so  forcibly  to  the  minds  of 
Affi'ricans  as  in  ••  Miss  Nobody  of  Nowhere,"  because  here 
Mr.  Gunter's  characters  and  incidents  are  upon  American  soil. 

The  New  Yo»*k  Press  asserts  that  in  the  part  of  the  book 
devoted  to  New  York  society  will  be  found  "  characters  that 
will  provoke  the  audible  smiles  of  instant  recognition."  Whilp 
the  Lordsburg  Western  Liberal  devotes  six  columns  of  its 
paper,  published  in  that  far-away  portion  of  New  Mexico,  the 
scene  of  the  fight  of  the  gallant  college  cowboy  to  save  xh/t 
little  English  girl  from  Nana's  braves,  to  "  Miss  Nobody  of 
Nowhere,"  and  in  a  leading  editorial  remarked  as  follows : 

"  The  people  of  the  West  owe  Mr.  Gunter  a  debt  for  painting 
the  Indian  question  in  a  manner  so  true  and  accurate,  and 
introducing  it  into  a  book  which  will  be  widely  read  by  the 
class  of  people  whom  Sheriff  Garvey  calls  '  the^.^  cussed 
philanthropodists.'  If  the  book  had  been  published  last 
summer  and  Sheriff  Harvey  Whitehill  had  circulated  about 
fifteen  hundred  of  them  through  the  country,  he  would  been 
re-nominated  and  re-elected  without  a  struggle." 

*'  FuU  of  incident  and  exeitement.^^ 

—UTEW  TOMK  HERALB. 

*-^The  EefXmiariiy  of  Mr*  Gunter  wiU 
now  be  greater  than  ever^** 

--TACOMA  GLOBE. 

*^  A  story  that  wiU  keep  a  man  away 
from  his  meaisJ^—QMAHA  BEE. 


I'  ; 


■»';V 


> 


